Feb. - The Raleigh Hatchet, a monthly music, art and humor magazine.

February 2005

www.clothingforacause.org 

Clothing for a Cause 

Yes it's that time Again! Help us make this another successful 

ovarian cancer awareness and fund-raising event. 

We're seeking donations for our third annual Boutique Nite in April. 

Drop off donations at: 

We will accept: 

vintage(40's-80's) 

gently worn modern clothing 

shoes 

handbags 

jewelry 

*all must be in resalable condition 

Father and Son 107 W. Hargett St. attn: Debi Kuszaj 

or 

Jackpot! attn: Dan Kuszaj 

Clothing for a Cause is 

based out of Raleigh NC. 

We raise money annually 

for the Ovarian Cancer 

Research Fund in memory 

of Cherrie Nation.

contents: 

The Raleigh Hatchet 

701 Glascock St. 

Raleigh, NC 27604 

Editor 

D.A. Nation 

dani@raleighhatchet.com 

Head of Production 

Bart Tomlin 

bart@raleighhatchet.com 

Music Editor 

Peter Schmehl 

peter@raleighhatchet.com 

Calendars & Listings 

calendar@raleighhatchet.com 

Photographers 

Sarah Pasell 

Jay Winfrey 

February, 2006 

Contributors 

Brittany Anderson, Tim Anderson, Matthew Anscher, Claire Ashby, 

Greg Barbera, Brian Bedsworth, Melvyn Brown, Josh Bryant, Vince 

Carmody, Charles Cardello, Joy Courson, Russ De Sena, Mike Dillon, 

Chad M. Dravk, Rose Dunnington, Lauren Etheridge, Cody Eyman, 

Greg Eyman, Brad Farran, Angel Femeister, Robert Gaddy, Michael 

Israel Gorelic, Shannon Gray, Kevin Hales, Brian Howe, Troy Jefferies, 

Cheetie Kumar, Dan Kuszaj, William Lee, Libby Lynn, Christy Meyer, 

Tanya Montoya, Mathew Nanney, Ashley Nation-Gaddy, Sarah Pasell, 

Cy Rawls, Peter Schmehl, Phil Solesky, Marco Soto, A. Spencer, DH 

Westmoreland, Jay Winfrey, Eric Wolf, Joe Yerry, Jon Yu 

Illustrators 

Daniel Gallant, Daniel Lynch, Ed Marsden, Kristin Matwiczyk, Chris 

Plankers, David K. Rose, Jer Warren 

Advertising 

ads@raleighhatchet.com 

Distribution 

distro@raleighhatchet.com 

4. Editors page 

5. Consumer Hero 

Obsession for men. In cowboy hats 

by Tim Anderson 

7. It aint Indiana Jones 

Mathew Nanney’s guide to brown-collar 

work 

11. Bars, Bars, Bars. 

Who needs a drink? Your guide to the best 

and worst bars in the Triangle 

14. Food Love 

Here’s the beef. By Charles Mangin 

17. Whack Jackets 

Album art that deserves to die lives 

on the internet. 

19. The sweetest hangover 

An interview with Richard Alwyn. 

By D. A. Nation 

20. A Hatchet survey 

The greatest love (song) of all 

21. Subjects Of Change 

Is it a dog-eat-dog world after all? 

By D. A. Nation 

23. Gallery List 

24. Art and commerce? 

Michael Israel Gorelic checks out HL Gallery 

26. Warning-- Safe for work 

Insomniatic Flotsam and Jetsam. By Libby 

Lyn 

27. Hipsters at Starbucks 

By Kevin Hales 

28. Inane Obsever 

30. Trivia Quiz 

31. Madame Mercury’s Horoscopes 

Cover photo by Sarah Pasell 

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The Raleigh Hatchet offers lots of opportunities for writers, artists and those interested in the publishing biz. 

Contact ballyhoo@raleighhatchet.com for more details 

PUBLISH! 

editor’s page 

This month we say goodbye 

to our one time music editor, 

Jeramy Lowe. Jeramy was with 

us from the beginning. He was 

a truly integral part in creating 

the Hatchet and we hate to see 

him go. Despite what rumors you 

may have heard, an unfortunate 

skydiving experience has 

left Jeramy with sudden and 

permanent sensorineural hearing 

loss in his left ear. Selflessly, he 

decided to step down and though 

we understand the reasons 

why, we will all miss him. He 

will remain a contributor to our 

little rag and we hope that if you 

should see him around you will 

tell him, in a clear loud voice, how 

much you’ve appreciated his tour 

of Hatchet duty. 

At the same time we’d like to 

welcome our new Music Editor, 

Peter Schmehl. We are sure that 

Peter will be tantoo-ed and jaded 

in no time at all, and we’d like 

encourage all our readers to help 

break him in by letting us know 

what they’d like to see more of in 

the music section. 

We’d like also to remind our 

readers that February is National 

Return Shopping Carts to the 

Supermarket Month, so for 

godssake please do your part. 

After all, there is a special place in 

hell reserved just for people who 

leave their cart in the parking lot. 

As always, thanks for reading. 

D.A. Nation 

Jeramy Lowe 

Photo by Dan Kuszaj 

4

Consumer Hero 

Obsession for men. 

In cowboy hats. 

By Tim Anderson 

In my long and storied personal history, 

nothing has driven me headlong into 

a wild, soul-gripping obsession like a 

powerful movie. A faithless lover will 

make you insane and have you driving 

past their house in the middle of the night 

with a shotgun swigging from a big bottle 

of Pepto Bismol, sure. A drug addiction 

will see you breaking in to your own 

parents’ house and stealing the carpet, 

the soup ladles and anything else with a 

market value over a buck fifty-five. And 

an unhealthy hatred for Ann Coulter will 

ensure you get spontaneous nosebleeds 

whenever there are tall blonde gangly 

transsexuals in your midst. But a film; an 

emotionally charged, vibrantly rendered, 

beautifully acted film will have you 

walking into walls and asking yourself the 

deep existential questions like, "Why can’t 

I have a giant spaceship-for-hire, a quick 

sardonic wit, and a Wookie sidekick?" or 

"How is it that I don’t have the golden 

curly locks and winning charisma of Glenn 

Close in "Fatal Attraction?" 

The first film that made me just that 

little bit crazy was "Superman." As a 

young boy of 8, I was transfixed by all 

that was winning about that picture: 

Christopher Reeve’s bone structure, 

hot physique, tights, bookish reporter 

glasses, big muscles, tights, tailored suits, 

luscious lips, long flowing red cape, tights, 

great posture, big hands, well-styled 

hair, tights and tights. Oh, and the hot 

tub in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. 

"Superman" allowed a young boy to 

dream that he too could one day fly, live 

in a sexy ice cave, become a hapless ace 

reporter, and beautifully fill out a pair of 

Underoos. When I came home from the 

theatre on that emotional day, though, I 

wanted that "one day" to be "today," so I 

made a bargain with God. After donning 

my Superman Underoos and getting a 

butter knife out of the kitchen drawer, 

I went to my bedroom to lie down and 

swore to God that if I didn’t wake up 

looking like Superman, I was going to hurt 

myself. With the butter knife. Yeah. I woke 

up and when I looked in the mirror I could 

swear that God had made me skinnier and 

my nose even bigger. I put the butter knife 

back in the drawer and decided I had a lot 

to learn about bargaining with God. And 

that maybe I should do some pushups. 

In high school I discovered "Maurice," 

a Merchant-Ivory period piece starring 

a pre-"Four Weddings and a Funeral" 

Hugh Grant that tells the story of two 

Cambridge students who fall in love and 

kind of want to do it with each other in 

pre-World War I England. I rented it from 

Blockbuster one weekend when my 

parents were out of town (Some kids had 

big parties when their parents were out 

of town; I rented videos. So what?). Over 

the weekend I watched it three times, 

and by Sunday night I was desperately 

unhappy that I had to go to a dirty greasy 

public school the next day instead of a 

prestigious, cold and dark all-boys private 

school in England where people say 

things like "Oh, Risley, do shut up! You are 

mistaking what is important for what is 

impressive." 

"I want to wear a suit to class," I 

thought. "And say the word ‘bloody.’ And 

hang out in the showers after the cricket 

match." 

Another movie had taken over my 

life. But this time I committed the 

unforgivable sin of making some of my 

friends sit through it. After opening those 

closet doors ever so slightly and telling all 

the people in my life who already knew, 

I gathered them together to show them 

a film that was very very important to 

me and had a very special place in my 

heart and was also very long and quite 

dry and boring if you weren’t emotionally 

engaged. They were good sports for the 

first thirty minutes but started going 

cross-eyed during the second (little did 

they know the movie was two-and-a-half 

hours). Eventually I started desperately 

trying to make it more interesting. 

"Oh! This part’s really funny!" I 

exclaimed right before the one and only 

line in the entire movie that could be 

considered a joke or at least a funny-type 

statement. Maurice, whose father has 

died and whose only father figure is the 

pompous Dr. Barry, is eating breakfast at 

his mother’s house while she scolds him 

for not going to church as his sisters look 

on. 

"What would Dr. Barry say?" she huffs. 

"Dr. Barry doesn’t go to church himself," 

Maurice rebuffs. 

"Dr. Barry is a most clever man, and so 

is Mrs. Barry," she reproaches him and his 

sisters. 

"Hee hee," giggles sister Ada. "Imagine 

Mrs. Barry being a man." Maurice guffaws. 

That’s hilarious, right? 

No, it wasn’t. I could feel everyone’s 

loathing for me as they left the room and 

went outside for their tenth cigarette 

break. I was officially on movie probation. 

They hated me because I was gay. 

It had been a while since I’d given 

myself over mind body and soul to a 

movie. Then, like a tall cool drink of 

water; like a soft and warm pair of cotton 

thermal underwear; like the Marlboro 

Man himself riding up on a white horse 

and proposing marriage, "Brokeback 

Mountain" came into my life, and it will 

never be the same. 

Unless you’ve been living in some 

dark cave in Breederville for the past few 

months, you’ve no doubt heard about the 

cowboy movie where Heath Ledger and 

Jake Gyllenhall heard sheep, ride horses, 

look hot, drink lots of whiskey, and fall 

deeply, irrevocably, and beautifully in love 

love love. That’s right. Heath Ledger. Jake 

Gyllenhall. Love. Take that, Texas. 

I expected to like the movie, sure. Two 

handsome cowboys embarking on the 

love that dare not speak its name under 

the giant blue skies of Wyoming, what 

exactly is there that I should not like, 

hmm? But I did not expect to be holding 

back the tears as the movie ended. I didn’t 

expect to immediately go out and buy 

the soundtrack and book. I did not expect 

to spend the next few days in front of a 

computer screen reading every movie 

review or article that had been written on 

the movie. I did not expect to get out my 

Johnny Cash albums and try desperately 

to get in touch with my inner ranch hand. 

consumer hero 

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"I wanna be a repressed, 

tortured and gorgeous gay 

cowboy!" I said. 

"Brokeback Mountain" took 

over my brain. All of a sudden 

I want to hang out in small 

town honky tonks. I want to 

relearn how to ride a horse. I 

want to maybe join the rodeo. 

My boyfriend Jimmy walks 

into the room after dressing 

for work and asks if he looks 

okay. 

"Yeah, fine," I say. "But 

wouldn’t you be more 

comfortable in these?" I 

hold up a pair of blue jeans, 

a flannel shirt, and a denim 

jacket. After I re-dress him, 

he looks a little unsure. That’s 

okay. I know what he needs. 

"Give me that toboggan." 

He rolls his eyes, swipes it off 

his head and hands it over. 

"Now," I say, placing a tengallon 

hat on his head and 

tilting it up just so. "Doesn’t 

that feel better?" 

He turns to go. 

"Don’t forget your boots, 

partner!" 

He runs to the bathroom, 

changes back into his regular 

clothes, puts the ten-gallon 

hat on my head, and dashes 

out of our fourth floor walkup, 

which in my mania I’m 

pretending is a big pup tent. 

But my obsession is strong 

enough to withstand the 

slings and arrows of Jimmy’s 

indifference. 

Strong enough, in fact, to 

withstand the sight of Gene 

Shalit, the Today show’s 

resident film critic—who 

never met a bad pun that he 

didn’t break all the rules of 

English grammar and sensible 

communication to utter—give 

"Brokeback Mountain" a bad 

review. Shalit, who really 

should be the star of his 

own horror movie franchise, 

declares that the film is 

"wildly over praised" and that 

Jake Gyllenhall’s character 

is a "sexual predator." Wait a 

minute. This coming from a 

man who gave "Good Burger" 

a good review. 

Most people would lean 

right over and throw up when 

hearing Gene Shalit say the 

words "sexual predator." Not 

me. I just tip my hat up, reach 

for my imaginary shotgun, and 

shoot him in the mustache. 

Awards season starts and I 

start handicapping "Brokeback 

Mountain"’s chances of taking 

every single award that has 

been invented for a movie. Best 

hats. Best facial expression of 

longing and need. Best pickup 

truck. Best lasso. Best nipples. 

The country’s critics agree 

that Heath Ledger is a virtual 

shoe-in for big nominations 

and big wins. I am thoroughly 

convinced that my baby’s 

gonna take it all. 

Then the Golden Globes 

happen, and, though the 

movie wins for Best Screenplay, 

Best Original Song, Best 

Director, and Best Picture, it 

does not win one single acting 

award. Michelle Williams loses 

to some bitch from Britain. And 

my sweet sweet Heath Ledger 

loses to Phillip Seymour 

Hoffman. 

I love Phillip Seymour 

Hoffman. I do. He’s good 

in everything he does: 

"Boogie Nights," "Magnolia," 

"Happiness," "Along Came 

Polly" (a career high), 

everything. He is truly a 

brilliant actor, an awesome 

screen presence, an allaround 

good guy. I love Phillip 

Seymour Hoffman. 

Fuck Phillip Seymour 

Hoffman. 

He has robbed my Heath of 

the award that is well and truly 

his. Doesn’t he know what he’s 

done? Sure, he deserves the 

award, but when he realized 

how important this movie was 

to me, he should have taken 

himself out of the running. 

No self-respecting cowboy 

would let a man get away with 

that kind of crime, no matter 

how talented he is. I had to 

take the law into my own 

hands. 

As Mr. Hoffman gives his 

unbearably happy acceptance 

speech, I take a swig of whisky, 

blow a few heartbreaking 

chords on my harmonica, clear 

the sheep out of the tent, tip 

my hat to clear up my field 

of vision, lift my imaginary 

shotgun once again, and aim 

for the bowtie. 

Heath, baby, I wish I could 

quit you.

It ain’t Indiana Jones 

A How-To Guide to Becoming a “Brown Collar” Worker 

• A good pair of waterproof leather boots 

for hiking, especially for marshy areas and 

crossing creeks. 

• High quality work socks and gel inserts, 

because you’re going to spend a lot of time 

on your feet. 

• A good pair of gloves, preferably with a 

reinforced palm to prevent blisters 

• A hat that gives the maximum of sun 

coverage. 

• A rusty shovel that looks like someone had 

previously discarded it on the side of the 

road (may be provided by employer). 

• A quarter inch mesh screen to sift the dirt 

and uncover artifacts (may also be provided 

by employer). 

illustration by Ed Marsden 

By Matthew Nanney 

First and foremost let’s set the record straight 

on a few issues. Archaeologists do not dig 

up dinosaur bones. I can’t stress enough that 

you will have to stick to your guns on this issue. 

Once you become an archaeologist almost 

everyone you meet will ask you that very same 

question, and you need to be prepared to let 

these strangers down gently without hurting 

their pride or engorged intellectual egos. 

Archaeologists dig up human cultural remains, 

and occasionally the humans themselves. 

But what does one need to become a brown 

collar worker, and soil the white collar of your 

academic breeding by actually getting dirty? 

How does one begin this intrepid journey into 

the mystery that is archaeology? Luckily, for 

you, here are a couple of lists to guide you in 

acquiring the provisions that you’ll need before 

hunting for buried treasure and lost cities. 

The Fantacrap List: 

• Bull whip, for crossing chasms and ensnaring 

beautiful damsels. 

• Leather jacket, it’s waterproof and looks slick. 

• Pistol, just incase right? 

• A big sword, but a machete will suffice to cut 

your way through lush green tropic jungles, 

or your foes. 

• One of those cool 1940’s fedora hats, to keep 

the sun out of your eyes and add to your 

mystique. 

• An army surplus WWI gas mask bag to carry 

your various pendants, amulets, and diaries. 

• Your lucky charm. 

• Khakis and an off-white double breast 

pocket safari shirt. 

• Raw tenacity, physical agility, and a constant 

five o’clock shadow. 

These are exactly the type of things you don’t 

need to take with you; excluding the machete, 

which after some time you’ll learn is invaluable. 

Here is a more accurate list of what gear you’ll 

need to take with you. 

• One good solid pair of cargo khakis, 

preferably Carharts or Dickies, but a cheap 

K-Mart brand will suffice. 

• At least five tee shirts, five pairs of 

underwear, and five pairs of socks. For all the 

minimalists out there. 

• A trowel, preferably a four to five inch 

Marshalltown triangular masonry trowel. 

• A bastard file for sharpening your trowel 

and shovel. 

• A compass to navigate your way through 

the often-dense woods. 

• One large Nalgene bottle or camel back to 

carry your water in. 

• One pocket calculator. 

• A healthy love of nature, because you’ll be 

spending more time in the outdoors that 

you ever thought was possible. 

• And to go along with the above, Technu 

to wash away and treat the poison Ivy, and 

calamine lotion for the itching. 

• A college degree of any sorts, preferably in 

Anthropology, but as long as you have an 

archaeological field school or equivalent 

experience you’ll be quailed. 

• The ability to mentally 

function while being 

caked in mud 

and dirt. 

So let’s assume you’re fresh out of college, 

ready to pursue your fantastic dreams of 

getting to leave your parents house in Charlotte 

with its beige sunroom and white lumpy 

sleeper sofa. So you sit in front of the computer 

screen in your “tighty whities” day and night 

searching hotjobs.com, monster.com, and oddly 

enough several links to different online dating 

services. And just as the stench from your 

unbathed body and an ashtray full of cigarette 

butts are starting to become pleasant familiar 

smells, you realize there are no job postings 

titled “Archaeologist” or “Professional Bad-Ass 

Explorer.” To your chagrin all the jobs that pay 

more than the part-time porcelain sanitation 

technician position you held during college 

look for experience you don’t have. There are 

long listings of employers looking for nursing 

staff, customer service representatives, and 

the seemingly infinite need for accountants 

all followed by abbreviated qualification 

you don’t understand. Relax… swallow your 

regret of not listening to your mother and 

getting a business or CIS degree, there is hope. 

The Real List:

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www.Shovelbums.org! This is the definitive 

website for finding a job in archaeology. Here’s 

one of interest: 

Attention New Graduates! A Missouri 

based CRM (Cultural Resource 

Management) firm is hiring for a Phase 

I survey outside the town of Sedalia, 

Missouri. No experience necessary. Per 

Diem is $30 a day with receipts; motel 

room is paid for by the company, and is 

available through the weekend. Project 

will last at least 2 months No mileage 

reimbursement. Fax or e-mail your cover 

letter and CV to the following number. 

This may be a bit confusing to you at first, 

but after a brief call to a college friend who 

has been working in CRM for a year, you get 

the translation of the ad. 

People we can hire cheaply! If you drive 

to Missouri there is a job for you. We bet 

that you will think this is a lot of money. 

We will give you $30 dollars a day to eat 

on, but will keep it for ourselves if you 

do not spend exactly that every day. We 

have cut a deal with a shitty motel, and 

you will get a crappy room. We will be 

getting the kick backs from that, and 

you get to sleep next to a stranger for 

2 months. We will not pay you for your 

travel time or your gas money. Bring 

shower shoes. 

You hastily write up a cover letter and 

CV/resume (Curriculum Vita in the science 

world) that basically states you went to 

college, two of your professors will vouch 

that you’re not crazy, and you speak terrible 

French. After proofing and utilizing your 

handy spell checker, you send in the literary 

masterpiece. And since you have a CV already, 

you send it into every other job in the country, 

cleverly playing the field. A week passes with 

no responses, then two weeks. Your diligence 

and composure are starting to fade, then in a 

stroke of good luck your penitence pays off. 

You’re rudely awakened at 11 a.m. by 

your younger sister kicking the door your 

bedroom door down You shoot up out of 

bed bewildered as she chucks the cordless 

phone at your head, yelling “Get up Lazy-Ass! 

There is someone on the phone for you, about 

some job.” Finally, the breakthrough you have 

been waiting for, an actual phone call from an 

actual employer. Since you’re still half asleep, 

the groggy frog in your throat graciously 

ribits a hello for you. The voice answers, “Yes… 

this is in reference to the job application you 

submitted for the project in Sedalia, Missouri.” 

You jump to your feet, and for some reason 

start to straighten and fix your disheveled hair. 

After covering the mouthpiece of the phone 

with your thumb, you let out a bowel-shaking 

throat clearing and a quick voice warm-up 

exercise you learned in choir class. Then 

briskly, you return to the phone with a smooth 

and steady, “yes I was the one who sent in the 

application.” It’s the best response you can 

muster under the prevailing circumstances. 

He responds, “My name is Grayson, and I’m the 

Crew Chief for this project. If you’re interested 

in the job meet at the Motel 6 in Oniede, 

Missouri this Sunday night and you can start 

on Monday morning.” Your initial response is 

to see if you need to bring the microfilm in the 

briefcase or an envelope for this seemingly 

clandestine affair. Instead, you say, “that 

sounds great, thank you.” Grayson gives you 

the curt details of your pay, which is ten fifty 

an hour with no overtime and of course, the 

per diem – then hangs up. The entire phone 

call seemed a bit hasty, and you almost *69 

Grayson back to make sure that you heard 

everything correctly. Instead you ride the wave 

of excitement, and start to make provisions to 

get ready to leave in three days. Follow the list 

provided earlier and you’ll be fine. 

The Money 

Spending most of your time on the road going 

from project to project can be a tremendous 

financial burden if you don’t spend and save 

wisely. Despite the modest compensations 

of per diem and wages you receive, you have 

to take into account that there may be long 

periods of downtime in-between jobs. Keep 

in mind most employers don’t offer medical 

insurance to non-fulltime employees. You 

have to play the part of a miserly hermit and 

save money every chance you get. Some 

projects will give you straight cash every 

week, in which case you spend frugally and 

pocket as much cash as you can. DOT projects 

are based on an itemized scale of $6 for 

breakfast, $8 for lunch, and $16 for dinner. 

They will also short you about $22 dollars a 

week because you didn’t start before 6 a.m. for 

Monday’s breakfast, and didn’t end after 8 p.m. 

for Friday’s dinner. These are the tidings of 

bureaucracy in action. Other projects like the 

job you just got will make you turn in receipts. 

This is a completely different set of skills. 

Every night you have to go play Super Market 

Sweep, and tally up all your daily expenditures 

making sure they don’t amount to over the 

given daily allotment – usually around $30 a 

day. This is where the pocket calculator comes 

in handy. For most projects you only stay 

overnight during the weekdays, so you want 

to buy mostly nonperishables and stock up on 

as many bulk dry goods as you can. It might 

also be a good idea to invest in a hotplate 

and a pot. This is so you can eat during those 

occasional weeks that your Crew Chief calls 

you at home and says that they’re calling 

the week off. Some days you buy a carton of 

Camel Lights and a box of Easy Mac, other 

days you buy 3 bags of Cheddar Ritz Chips, 4 

jars of crunchy organic peanut butter, a jar of 

Store brand Grape Jelly, and a loaf of Wonder 

Bread. Play around with the combinations, 

and start a collection of those supermarket 

discount cards you can put on your key chain– 

it’s a good hobby. 

So you pack up your 1989 ferrous brown 

Toyota Corolla hatch back, with all your 

supplies and an old beat up Washburn 

acoustic guitar to play around with. You’re 

not going to be exploring the American 

dream like Kerouac by stowing away on train 

cars traveling cross-country, but your trip 

might be equally as memorable. Interchange 

psychodelic 70’s rock with NPR. It makes the 

time pass quickly and cheerfully. In ten quick 

hours, you’ve reached your destination and 

pull up to the dilapidated Motel 6. You walk 

inside the burgundy and gray lobby, with

the stench of Asian food and stale cigarettes 

hitting you so strongly that you squint your 

eyes and nose in disgust. Yet they seem 

vaguely comforting and familiar to you. You 

tell the front desk clerk your name. She gives 

you a key and says that your roommate has 

already checked in. 

You haul your bags up to the door of 

your room with quiet anxiety as to what 

you’ll find inside. You unlock the door and 

turn the knob, slowly pushing the door 

open. A loud shout comes from inside the 

room, “what the hell man.” A salt and pepper 

bearded man wearing white boxers and tee 

shirt with matching yellow stains and holes 

on the sleeves stands before you. He has 

grabbed the telephone book, threatening 

it as some sort of bludgeoning tool. You’re 

nearly speechless, but spit out the words, “… 

I’m your… roommate?” He drops the book 

on the floor, and mumbles sorry to you as 

he lies back on his bed and returns to his TV 

program completely ignoring you. You’re more 

tired than terrified, so you throw down your 

bags and make your way towards your own 

bed. The comforter is riddled with charred 

holes from cigarette burns, and mysterious 

stains. You toss it off on the floor and slide 

onto the bed. The relative cleanliness of the 

standard burgundy and gray motel room is 

slightly better than the lobby. You turn to your 

roommate after watching TV for a few minutes 

and allowing the mist of awkwardness to 

clear the room, and ask him his name. He 

pulls the green O’Doul’s bottle away from his 

lips for a moment, and while still maintaining 

that thousand-yard stare towards the TV 

he mutters, “I’m Bill.” Not volunteering any 

additional information, and having fulfilled 

your social obligations, you allow Bill to finish 

off his six-pack in peace. You get up, brush 

your teeth and literally fall asleep the moment 

your head hits the coarse grained pillow. 

You’re awakened in the middle of the night 

by a quiet mouse-like noise coming from Bill’s 

side of the room. You expect the worst that 

he’s gratifying himself, but the noise comes 

in pulses and whines that you recognize as 

sobbing. You thought this night couldn’t get 

any weirder, and you place a pillow on either 

side of your head and try desperately to return 

peacefully to sleep. 

It’s 7 a.m. and you’ve been used to getting 

up around noon, then sitting in your gray 

fleece bathrobe till about 2 p.m. Miraculously 

Bill has gotten up, gotten dressed and snuck 

out of the room without making a peep. 

Somehow he posses the miraculous skill of 

ninja like stealth, but can’t seem to sob himself 

quietly to sleep. You haven’t been this excited 

since your first day of pre-school. But unlike 

that day you won’t forget your pre-packed 

PB&J, carrot sticks, Ritz crackers, and Diet Pepsi 

stuffed in a wrinkled white grocery bag. You 

walk out the door of the motel room, and the 

sun hits you dead in the pupils, making you 

cringe and squint unfolding the blue Anarchy 

polarized sunglasses your sister got you 

last Christmas last year. You heard there was 

promise of breakfast downstairs in the lobby, 

and at the very least halfway decent coffee. 

You’ll be disappointed on both accounts. 

Sitting around white café tables spread out 

over the dinning area are about six guys 

a couple of years older than you, dressed 

strikingly similar to how you are. You smile, 

but no one seems to notice as you make your 

way towards the breakfast bar. Splayed before 

you are a variable myriad of stale pastries, 

breads, rock hard bagels, donuts, hot and cold 

cereals, condiments, and what appears to be a 

bucket of peeled hardboiled eggs. You take a 

couple of eggs out the bucket and put them 

on your plate, as you wait for your plain bagel 

to toast. As you start to add the obligatory 

cream and sugar to your coffee one of your 

doppelgangers makes his way across the 

lobby towards you. 

“Hey, I’m Ryan… you must be the new 

guy.” He smiles, “Hey, are you the person they 

put with Bill this time around?” You answer his 

with a tentative yes, and he begins to laugh 

a little to himself. “Sorry man, they always put 

the new person with him every time, consider 

it a right of passage.” You laugh hesitantly and 

force a grin. “So did he cry himself to sleep 

this time, or did he just pace the room all 

night long?” You tell him about the O’Doul’s 

and your introduction. He laughs a little 

louder this time this time, “That’s a new one 

on me, I’ve go to tell the other guys about 

that. Peering over Ryan’s shoulder through 

the glass you can see Bill pacing back and 

forth furiously smoking his cigarette, and 

drinking out of two coffee cups stacked on 

top of one another. Ryan noticed your gaze 

and leans in towards your ear, “Apparently he 

dropped out of the masters program at the 

University of Tennessee after a bad LSD trip 

and his professors confronting him about 

his alcoholism, he seems a bit crazy but he’s 

harmless.” He’s actually a bit of a savant at 

archaeology, hand him any piece of pottery 

that came from East of the Mississippi and he 

can tell you exactly where it came from, time 

period and all.” Ryan grins compassionately 

as he notices the mortified look on your face, 

and whispers, “I’ve got a two bed room all to 

myself, and you can stay with me from now 

on.” Just then the mass of people in cargo 

pants start to get up and mosey to the door, 

Relieved, you quickly gather your grocery bag 

and breakfast, which has now been reduced 

to the prepared bagel and coffee that you’re 

franticly consuming, and make your way out 

the font of the lobby. 

Awaiting you are two beat-up rust and 

white Chevy cargo vans, the kind painters, 

serial rapists, or terrorist bombers tend to 

employ. Ryan has saved you a seat next 

to him in the open van near the back, as 

you negotiate that age-old question with 

yourself—do I give the other people I pass by 

the crotch or the ass? 

The twenty-minute car ride lands you in 

the middle of nowhere. Everyone files out of 

the Van, and a familiar voice comes beckons 

you from behind. It’s the man who called on 

the phone. His authoritative voice decrees, 

“You go with Ryan, he’ll show you where we 

picked up from last week.” You stuff all of the 

loose gear in your pockets, put on your clean 

gloves, grab your shovel and screen and scurry 

after Ryan through the middle of the woods. 

The beautiful oak and pine canopy obscure 

the underbrush that snags your shovel as a 

branch covered in briars racks across your 

face. The mosquitoes are already buzzing 

around your head, as Ryan calls back to you, 

“Hey, watch out for snakes.” Just when you’re 

really starting to second-guess your career 

choices – which may become a daily ritual 

- Ryan stops. After going through what you 

need to do, and not do, you’re surprised at just 

how easy it is. Here is a simplified list of what 

to do: 

• Make sure the hole is at least 16 inches 

wide; otherwise you’ll get chewed out. 

• Dump all of dirt in the screen. 

• Every time the soil changes color stop and 

screen the dirt, by shaking the big box with 

legs back and forth like your rowing a boat. 

• Look closely for artifacts while you’re 

screening the dirt. 

• You can stop digging under one of the 

three conditions: 

• You’ve reached subsoil, which is usually 

hard compact clay. 

• You’ve dug to 70 centimeters. 

• You’ve reached hydric soils, or water starts 

to fill in at the bottom of the hole. 

• And never forget to fill back in your hole, or 

you will be chewed out. 

Artifacts You’ll Find 

Don’t worry if it all sounds a bit too wordy and 

foreign to you. You’ll learn all of the esoteric 

descriptive words in field school, or in college. 

But what about all the other “cool” artifacts 

you’ll find? Most of the prehistoric ones 

(from European contact until 50 years ago) 

will be mundane, and consist of three major 

categories: lithic (rock), ceramic (pottery) and 

faunal (bone). You will find the occasional 

arrowhead (projectile point) or even more 

rare an axe made of ground stone. Ceramics 

can look a lot like rocks when you find them, 

and are often not bigger than a couple of 

inches wide. Faunal remains take a little more 

expertise, but no one is going to even let you 

get near a human grave for many years. 

The Monotony and the Pain 

After digging 3 or 4 shovel tests you have 

the hang of it and Ryan hikes back to the 

van. You start to develop a rhythm that goes 

something like this: dig dig; sift sift; sort sort; 

write write; fill fill. You might even start to 

sing a song, like the one from Snow White, 

but hopefully you’ll prefer a working man’s 

song like “That Lucky Old Sun”, by Johnny Cash. 

By 10 a.m. you’re drenched with sweat, and 

regardless of your best efforts at cleanliness 

you’re constantly covered with dirt and mud 

head to toe. You take a few breaks throughout 

the day to smoke a few Camel Lights, and an 

uneventful 30 minute unpaid break for lunch. 

After the first few days, you’re truly starting to 

contemplate weather or not your thirteenth 

amendment rights are starting to be violated. 

Your muscles have turned to rubber bands, 

and lactic acid pumps through your system 

fighting for dominance over your thinning 

blood. And now you’re set for after a very quite 

car ride back to the motel room to recuperate 

for another day. This will be your routine 

every weekday, and all weeks that turn into 

months thereafter. The terrain changes, the 

cities change, there are different restaurants 

to go to, different Wal-Marts to buy deodorant 

and shampoo from. You had no idea just how 

many tiny towns there were in America and 

it’s kind of exciting at first, the travel and the

exotic hole in the wall bars you’ll frequent. 

But slowly the toils of your labors and burden 

of your free time on nights and weekends 

text: 

will catch Agency up FB, to you. Luckily there are a few 

remedies bold, for 10pt. the , pain. 

height= 75%, 

Beer, width= it’s your 110% ally and constant companion. 

You’ll pretty much always go back to the 

hotel room and drink a couple. PBR of course 

because those good beers you learned to 

appreciate in college are pretensions and 

you can no longer afford them any more. The 

general rule of thumb is two beers take the 

edge off. 3-4 makes you back loosen up and 

the repetitive plots of the sitcoms you’ve been 

watching seem crisp, funny, and original. 5-6 

will make you forget that you’ve been living 

out of a suitcase in motel rooms for the past 

few months straight. . 

Junk food is also your friend, because you 

can hardly eat during the heat of the day. 

Even in the smallest of towns there is always a 

Chinese restaurant or a Dominos that delivers. 

But miraculously despite all your sweat and 

hard work during the day, your belly seems 

to get a little bigger each night. In addition to 

the liquid anesthetics, for all those morning 

aches and pains, two 400mg generic pain 

relievers in the morning will fend away the 

sore muscles and the occasional hangover. 

1500mg of Glucosamine Sulfate taken each 

day with a multi-vitamin will help repair all 

the tore cartilage in your knees, ankles, wrists, 

shoulders, and elbows. This makes it easier to 

get up out of bed at the end of the week. 

Career Stability 

The project you’ve been working on comes to 

an end, but you were smart and had another 

job lined up afterwards. You leave Missouri 

and spend a week back at your parent’s house 

dodging questions about the ambiguity of 

your future and when you’re going back to 

school. Then it’s off to crash for a week with 

your old college roommate who majored in 

Graphic design and has a nice loft apartment 

near downtown Charlotte– with a paycheck 

to match. After repeatedly washing your field 

cloths to get all of the dirt out, you put on 

the good tee shirt and jeans that you’ve been 

saving for just such a special occasion. Lying 

down on your friends’ black Italian leather 

sofa marveling at the big screen TV, marble 

fireplace, and oak hardwood floors, you start 

to wonder weather or not you might be 

missing out on something in life. 

The past few months you’ve become 

acclimated to wearing dirty field clothes all 

the time, and have even reached a perfect 

state of hippie Zen where you no longer care 

about your physical appearance. But you go 

out to bars that night with your friend, and 

repeatedly get shot down by every person 

you approach. Comparing your wardrobe with 

all the other people around you it all starts to 

make sense. And after the second pitcher of 

Blue Moon—which your friend is buying—you 

start to wonder if you should give up these 

pipe dreams. You haven’t been laid in a year, 

you don’t stay anywhere long enough to find 

a significant other, and frankly in most towns 

that you stay in the available locals scare you. 

Unfortunately this has never deterred you 

from testing the waters from time to time. 

After a bit of rest and relaxation, you 

move on to your next job in Fort Bragg, North 

Carolina that will last for 5 weeks. It’s the 

middle of a scorching summer, you’ve been 

working for about 3 weeks and everything 

seems to be going uneventfully until one day 

two of your co-workers are captured by an 

Army platoon during their routine training 

exercises. They were standing by the tree line 

talking when two men in guiley suits came 

up from behind pointing guns and drug them 

off into the woods. Unlike you, they’ve been 

detained since morning and get to stay in 

the nice air-conditioned office building you 

can see off in the distance. Meanwhile, you’re 

sweating even worse than in the Missouri 

jungle. Despite the fact that they were scared 

to their wits end and had firearms pulled on 

them, you’re actually jealous. 

Apparently, the platoon leader didn’t 

believe that the lucky two weren’t scouts from 

Bravo Company. Besides everyone knows 

that archaeologist dig up dinosaur bones, 

and according to him there aren’t any of 

those around these parts. And let’s not even 

mention the fact you’re working on an active 

military training ground where at any time 

you could sink your rusty shovel in the ground 

and activate an unexploded ordinance, which 

could blow one of your legs off. Don’t worry 

you’ll be fine! Besides if you get injured 

while working you get the benefit of the 

company’s health insurance and employee 

compensation. Don’t worry its worth the risk. 

It’s a government wage determination job, you 

get and extra dollar an hour! 

But it’s your next job that really adds insult 

to injury. It’s project outside f Winston-Salem 

North Carolina that luckily began the week 

after the fort Bragg project ended. You start 

talking to an NCDOT worker who is there with 

a backhoe to dig out a trench for excavation. 

After a few minutes of chitchat he brings up 

the insane idea that you must get paid very 

well. After you set him straight and tell him 

you make 11 dollars an hour, he starts to 

laugh. Apparently he makes almost triple what 

you do and he only has a GED, and a certificate 

from a three-week training school. The shock 

settles in even more when his bosses roll onto 

the scene, five deep, and stand around you 

and your co-workers, just watching you. One 

of them laughs and turns towards you saying, 

“Hell, maybe we should have sent our boys to 

college, if they could learn to dig like that.” 

The moral of the story, if all stories must 

have morals, is this: if you love it you’ll stay, 

if you don’t you won’t last too long. With all 

the hardship, why would you even consider 

becoming an archaeologist? The answer is 

quite the conundrum. On one hand the nature 

of the work is far from appealing, but on the 

other hand you get used to the drudgery and 

actually become masochistically addicted to 

the physical labor. It’s like a runner’s high, only 

you don’t have to wear the shorty shorts. It’s 

the sheer ecstasy of busting your ass all day 

long, despite the rarity of rewards. And that’s 

the real kicker, while archaeology as a science 

is not a treasure hunt; the practice itself is 

purely that. What keeps you motivated is the 

anticipation of finding artifacts, preferably the 

“cool” ones like arrowheads and carved bone 

tools. It’s the exhilaration of holding a piece of 

history in your hand that up until that point 

had been lost to time.

These parts are chock full of clubs, 

pubs, dives and lounges. Below 

you’ll find some Raleigh Hatchet 

favorites. If your favorite bar isn’t 

listed yet, feel free to email and 

pass the information along, but 

please don’t freak out and call us. 

We’re hung over and we’re already 

planning to expand this section 

each month. My God man, we can 

only drink so much. 

RALEIGH 

42nd St Oyster Bar 

508 W Jones Street 

919.831.2811 

Just about as old school Raleigh as 

a bar can be, this traditional heavy 

wood and brass rail bar located 

in the popular seafood restaurant 

is frequented by government 

workers, big business people and 

social drinkers. Excellent old school 

bartenders, and a rowdy weekend 

atmosphere with live music. 

Abyssinia 

2109 Avent Ferry Rd Ste 150 

919.664.8151 

You may think it sounds weird, 

but this is a great little bar hidden 

away in an Ethiopian restaurant in 

a strip mall. Every time I’ve been 

here, the place has been populated 

with off-work taxi drivers. Very laid 

back. Beer only. 

Alibi Bar 

14 W Martin Street 

919.834.7350 

Rising from the ashes of Lizzie’s, 

Alibi is a downtown basement bar 

that’s a little too slick to be a dive, 

but too comfy and casual to be 

“upscale”. There’s a pool table and a 

killer jukebox Private Club. 

April and George 

414 Glenwood Ave 

919.828.9082 

Upscale wine bar that offers 

occasional DJ’s and dancing. 

Terrific art that changes monthly. 

One of the only Glenwood South 

bars that rises above the grown up 

frat party scene. 

Aries Lounge 

400 W Morgan Street Ste 102 

919.828.8494 

Zodiac themed nightclub with 

a mini dance floor and a urbanchic 

atmosphere. Great DJ’s cool 

couches and for a change of 

pace—a wall-length fish tank. 

Great place to catch a quiet midweek 

drink as well. 

Berkley Café 

217 W Martin Street 

919.821.0777 

Downtown live music venue that 

showcases blues, jazz and a weekly 

open mic night. Right next door to 

that bill payin’ place. A mix of old 

timers and college kids. Late night 

bars, bars, bars 

menu. 

Bickett Gallery Art Bar 

209 Bickett Blvd 

919.836.5358 

Very sophisticated but surprisingly 

chill for an art-gallery bar. The 

best patio view in the Triangle 

and a great bar staff. You will want 

to make this secret bar a regular 

destination. Full bar, private club 

open late on weekends. 

Blue Martini 

116 N West Street 

919.899.6464 

A new edition to the Powerhouse 

Square, located in the former Taza 

Grill location, but all dressed up for 

trendy sophistication. Offers tapas 

and DJ’s on the weekend. 

Blincos 

5009 Falls of Neuse Road 

919.790.3882 

A pretty typical sports bar, with 

beer on tap, bar food and lots 

of TV’s. You have to love a North 

Raleigh restaurant that’s not a 

national chain though. Strange 

collection of hockey enthusiasts. 

Bogart’s American Grill 


919.832.1122 

Trendy martini bar that’s a bit on 

the pricey side, but offers good live 

jazz and infused vodkas. 

CC’s 

313 W Hargett Street 

919.755.9599 

On of Raleigh’s oldest queer bars. 

Live piano music. Can get a little 

crazy towards last call. Private Club. 

Café Cyclo 

202 Cameron Street 

919.829.3773 

Urban chic in a strip mall, this 

Cameron Village restaurant bar 

sells delicious espresso cocktails 

and has a huge martini menu. 

Smoke free environment. 

Cappers 

4421 Six Forks Road Ste 115 

919.787.8963 

A Raleigh standard, Cappers 

has been showcasing local and 

touring jazz acts for 15 years. The 

atmosphere is grown up and laid 

back. 

Capital Room 

112 Fayetteville Street 

919.833.1722 

Casual bar and eatery across from 

the state capitol provides a muchneeded 

no frills alternative to 

scores of trendy downtown bars. 

Good old school bartenders. 

Churchill’s 


919.831.1525 

Five points old school bar with 

darts, a crap load of wood paneling 

and expensive scotch. The feeling 

is relaxed and unpretentious. 

Private Club. 

Dive Bar 


919.832.9363 

Don’t let the name fool you; Dive 

Bar isn’t as crappy as it sounds. 

It’s actually kind of nice. Chrome 

fixtures, Video games, hunky 

bartenders that look like the dudes 

on 5th Wheel and cheap ass drinks. 

Private Club. 

East Village 

1 Dixie Trail 

919.821.9985 

This bar has a great patio; 

otherwise it’s pretty much your 

standard college hangout. Young 

crowd, cheap drinks, good bloody 

mary’s and burgers. 

Five Star 


919.833.3311 

Urban Asian eatery that turns into 

hip-hop dance bar for the late 

night. Very chic. Good bartenders 

and great dark slinky atmosphere. 

They’ll be relocated by the new 

Raleigh rail project so enjoy while 

you can. 

Flex 

2 S West Street 

919.832.8855 

This bar is so gay they even put 

gay porn on their website. An 

underground dive that offers 

great drink specials (Mondays, well 

drinks are a buck and a quarter) 

and Thursdays are Trailer Park drag 

shows – with prizes! Private Club. 

Flying Saucer 

328 W Morgan Street 

919.821.7401 

My god this bar has a lot of beer, 

there are miles of taps and a coded 

beer list to help you navigate 

them all. Young Professionals. Hot 

waitresses. Late night food. 

The Goat 

5111 Western Blvd 

919.233.4143 

The shiniest dive in Raleigh. No 

shit. Even with no overhead 

lighting there’s still enough faux 

chrome to make it radiant like a 

tanning salon, albeit a very cozy 

tanning salon. It’s frequented by 

NC State white hats and area lifers, 

plays a pretty decent selection of 

rock and punk music and offers 

cheap drinks and cheaper Jell-o 

shots in a mouth-watering variety 

of fruit flavors. Thumbs up. Private 

club. 

Havana Deluxe 


919.831.0991 

A cigar bar with leather couches 

and very dark intimate atmosphere 

that is occasionally violated on 

weekend nights by Glenwood 

Southers. Great margaritas and 

martinis. Private club. 

Helios Coffee Company 


919.838.5177 

By day a coffee shop, at night 

Helios turns into a wine and beer 

bar with DJ’s and a comfortable 

smoke free atmosphere. 

Hibernian 


919.833.2258 

A Hatchet daytime bar favorite 

– it’s dark and quiet and the 

bartenders are amazing smartasses. 

At night you might hear 

the Cranberries on one side of 

the room and a guy covering Don 

McLean’s American Pie on the 

other. 

Horniblows Tavern 

1249 Wicker Drive 

919.345.2227 

Funny name for a great little beer 

bar. Hidden off Atlantic Avenue 

near the ABC warehouse, this 

pub features the beers of NC’s 

own Edenton Brewing Company. 

Be warned, they are a good deal 

stronger than your average 

draft (watch out for the Big Boss 

especially). Friendly, hilarious 

bar staff and interesting mix of 

hipsters, hippies and beer snobs. 

And free ping-pong! 

Humble Pie 

317 S Harrington Street 

919.829.9222 

The oasis of the warehouse district 

located in a hundred year old tile 

warehouse. The space is open and 

inviting. Patio seating and $5 top 

shelf martinis on Thursday nights. 

A Hatchet Favorite. 

Jackpot! 

1303 Hillsborough Street 

919.821.8422 

The ultimate dive bar with a 

hipster crowd. Dark, loud, smoky 

and cheap. Great DJ’s playing rock, 

punk, soul and depressing country. 

What could be better? Cute 

bartenders. Private Club. 

Jillians 


919.821.7887 

Should you ever need 50 pool 

tables, an outdoor volleyball court 

and hibachi grills this is the place 

to find them. College crowd. Strict 

dress code. Look for the giant 

shark’s head on the outside wall. 

Kings 

424 S McDowell Street 

919.831.1005 

Live music venue with full liquor 

permits, this bar is spacious and 

caters to the music enthusiast 

in the know. Live music, Tuesday 

night movies, vintage video 

games and good drinks. A Hatchet 

Favorite. Private Club.

Legends 


919.831.8888 

Raleigh’s original gay dance bar. 

Drag shows on the weekends, DJ’s 

and Goth nights. Private Club. 

The Longbranch 

600 Creekside Drive 

919.829.1125 

A redneck extravaganza. Line 

dancing, mechanical bull riding 

and the occasional freak scene 

like Great White or midget 

coleslaw wrestling (really just short 

women).Private Club. 

Mitch’s Tavern 


919.821.7771 

There are tasteful paintings of 

naked women behind the bar of 

this NCSU college staple. Lots of 

old school charm - Bull Durham 

was filmed here – but it gets rowdy 

during State games. Late night 

menu and cheap beer. 

MoJoes 


919.832.6799 

A burger joint with a stripped 

down attitude - named after Mojo 

Nixon and frequented by people 

who’ve never heard of him. Late 

night menu and buckets of beer. 

The Hatchet editorial staff once 

reignes supreme on the megatouch 

machine at this Glenwood 

South bar (now those damn things 

are everywhere). 

Moonlight Pizza 


919.755.9133 

Boylan Heights neighborhood 

pizzeria that cuts the music for 

Chapelle’s Show and weird X-treme 

Spike TV events. Comfortable and 

stylish. Great bartenders. A Hatchet 

Favorite. 

Northside Billiards 

815 E Whitaker Mill Road 

919.828.0254 

Beer bar with pool tables (duh) 

and a juke box so crappy its great. 

Neighborhood and dive bar appeal 

next door to a hot dog shack and a 

muffler shop. 

The Office 


919.828.9994 

The name of this bar is funny 

because you can tell your wife 

you’re going to be at “The Office” 

late and you won’t be lying. 

Exclusively priced memberships, 

DJ’s and a VIP lounge. Private Club. 

The Office Tavern 

710 W Johnson Street 

919.833.5165 


because you can send people 

looking for The Office to The Office 

Tavern and confuse the living shit 

out of them. Unholy dive bar with a 


surprising amount of charm. Cheap 

beer. 

Oxygen 

412 W Davie Street 

919.821.3188 

Raleigh’s largest and most well 

promoted dance club. DJ’s 

Wednesday thru Saturday. Caters 

to a younger well dressed (and 

by this we mean barely clothed) 

crowd. 

Players Retreat 

105 Oberlin Road 

919.755.9589 

Ancient cozy dive bar annexed by 

NCSU students and professors. Old 

school sports bar vibe. 

Pooles Diner 

426 S McDowell Street 

919.832.4477 

Named after the original 1950’s 

lunch counter that once inhabited 

the space this daytime lunch spot 

converts into a retro-casual late 

nite bar that’s comfortable enough 

for an evening with friends but 

charming enough for a first date. 

The drinks can be pricey, but 

they’re more than worth it. Food 

served late on weekends – don’t 

miss the mac and cheese! 

Porters 


919.821.2133 

A sophisticated establishment on 

an oft-deserted street, Porters is 

the best thing going on the NC 

State strip. Stylish atmosphere 

manages to scare off obnoxiously 

drunk college students. Amazing 

gourmet nachos. Extensive drink 

menu. 

Pour House 

224 S Blount Street 

919.821.1120 

Live music venue that can only 

be described as “funky.” Vintage 

furnishings, pool tables full liquor 

permits and mug nights. Private 

Club. 

Profile 

625 E Whitaker Mill Road 

919.833.4527 

Typical, but very large and 

accommodating, sports bar, a.k.a. 

The Upper Deck. Bar food, crap 

loads of TV’s and a great staff. Plus 

the most up to date mega-touch 

machine in Raleigh. 

Ri Ra 

126 N West Street 

919.833.5535 

Irish-style pub with secluded 

seating, Trivia on Tuesday nights, 

late night menu and booming 

weekend crowds. 

Rockford 

320 1/2 Glenwood Ave 

919.821.9020 

In Style magazine calls this bar an 

“unassuming hipster hideaway.” 

We call it the first bar on the 

Glenwood South Strip and still one 

of the best. Good strong drinks, 

good music and very little meat 

market action. 

Sadlacks 


919.828.9190 

A drunkard’s institution with 

cheap beer, cheap sandwiches 

and patio seating that’s extremely 

well populated in the spring and 

summer. Fantastic bathroom 

graffiti. A great place for those prenoon 

beers. 

Second Empire Tavern 


919.829.3663 

An affordable alternative to the 

5-star restaurant bearing the same 

name. Late night appetizer menu, 

outdoor seating and plenty of old 

Raleigh charm – and patrons. 

Slims 

227 S Wilmington Street 

919.833.6557 

Downtown distillery that caters 

to the loud and crazy old school 

crowd. Outdoor seating. Very 

personable bartenders. Great live 

music schedule. A Hatchet favorite. 

Private Club. 

Sharky’s 

5800 Duraleigh Road Ste 101 

919.783.5448 

What appears to be a typical 

Raleigh pool hall/bar is just that. 

Very eccentric owner, very dry staff. 

This place is pretty cool, for a North 

Raleigh pool hall. 

Village Draft House 

428 Daniels Street 

919.833.1373 

Clean, newish-looking Cameron 

Village sports bar. The wings are 

great, and so is the selection of 

about fifteen or so draft beers, 

which will cater to most everyone’s 

taste. Décor tends towards typical 

sports bar, and also boasts a 

celebrity photo wall. A good 

place to be in the afternoon, 

but crowded during ACC sports 

broadcasts and weekend nights. 

Vin 

410 Glenwood Ave Ste 350 

919.834.3070 

European style wine bar and 

gourmet restaurant has a great 

cheap late night food menu. 

Excellent wine selection and 

covered patio seating. DJ’s on first 

Fridays and every Saturday night. 

Western Lanes 


919.832.3533 

Any place that caters to late night 

drunken bowlers can’t be bad. The 

absolute kicker is that the lady 

behind the bar seems to cherish 

nothing more in the world than 

sliding your beer down the bar to 

you. A Hatchet favorite. 

White Collar Crime 

319 W Davie Street 

919.828.0055 

Cozy, artful and easy to lose 

time in, this is a great open, well 

lit upscale place – in a former 

Wells Fargo depository. Extensive 

cocktail menu. fantastic bartenders, 

garden patio. 

DURHAM 

48 Hours 

2825 Roxboro Street 

919.317.1600 

The Cosmic Cantina 

1920 1/2 Perry St at 9th Street 

919.286.1875 

If you can endure the highly 

privileged Duke students on their 

weekly bender, the food is amazing 

and cheap - and the drinks are 

worth it just to eavesdrop on the 

future power players of America. 

Down Under Pub 

802 W Main Street at N Duke 

Street 

919.682.0039 

One of the better dive bar scenes 

in Durham, the Down Under caters 

to arbitrary walk-ins and has a lowkey 

neighborhood feel. Intriguing 

clientele, late night food and cheap 

beer, and full liquor. 

The Federal 

914 W Main Street 

919.680.8611 

A new hipster hangout in Durham 

that’s spacious yet cozy. It’s got 

salads, sandwiches, tapas, all the 

top-shelf wine & beer you could 

want, and weekly DJs will be 

setting the mood with 60s-70s 

soul, funk, jazz, reggae to indie-rock 

and more. 

George’s Garage 

737 9th Street 

919.286.4131 

Open and stylish space with 

upscale patrons, a busy local bar 

business and tremendous appletini’s. 

The pork chops will make you 

so happy. A Hatchet favorite. 

Green Room 

1108 Broad Street 

919.286.2359 

We love this bar! A depression era 

pool hall with original fixtures and 

a gratifying bell that rings for every 

tip. Very pleasing shuffleboard 

table and a juke box full of guilty 

pleasures. Cute bartenders. 

James Joyce 


919.683.3022 

Ye olde Irish pub right in the heart 

of downtown Durham. Dimly lit, 

comfortable and sociable. Good 

selection of beers, bar food and 

weekly trivia.

Jo & Joes 


919.688.3322 

Neighborhood joint that really 

reminds me of the bar on M.A.S.H.. 

Unpretentious food, drink and 

crowd. 

Montas 

2223 US Highway 54 E 

919.361.2390 

Not so much a bar as a dance club 

– Montas is a great place to learn 

salsa dancing or practice your 

moves without wrangling drunks 

on the way to the dance floor. 

Tropical drink specials, DJ’s. Private 

Club. 

Parizades 


919.286.9712 

Greek/Mediterranean restaurant 

with DJ’s and dancing on 

weekends. 

Ringside 


919.680.2100 

There’s a wonderful big city/opium 

den feel to this three story former 

gay bar that has since come to 

appeal to the newly crowned 

metrosexual crowd. Live music, 

DJ’s, and a piano bar downstairs. A 

Hatchet favorite. Private Club. 

Shooters 


919.680.0428 

You know you have always wanted 

to ride a mechanical bull. Here’s 

your chance, pal. They supply full 

padding if you feel as if you cannot 

hang with the urban cowboy. 

Possible encounters with scary 

locals, but well worth it. Cheap 

beer. Live Music. Private club. 

Talk of the Town 

108 E Main Street 

919.682.7747 

Warm friendly restaurant and bar 

that offers nightly entertainment 

via DJ’s, jazz, R&B or soul acts. Laid 

back and grown up. 

CHAPEL HILL/CARRBORO 

Caffe Pane & Vino 

418 W Franklin Street 

919.942.1556 

Charming and comfortable 

European style café with a simple 

selection of pastries, sandwiches, 

coffee drinks and wines. Great wine 

list. Sidewalk patio. 

Carolina Brewery 


919.942.1800 

Two story open/industrial space. 

Caters to sports enthusiasts with 

an in house basketball hoop. Local 

brews on tap and a good bar 

menu. 


The Cave 

452 1/2 W Franklin Street 

919.968.9308 

Located 10 feet under West 

Franklin this live music venue 

showcases local rock, folk, and alt 

country. Pool tables, pinball and 

good beer on tap. Plus a real under 

ground rock décor – very surreal. 

Dead Mule 


919.969.7659 

A little house next to McDonalds 

– but still cool. Great porch. Huge 

liquor selection and interesting 

crowd. Private Club. 

East End Martini Bar 

201 E Franklin Street 

919.929.0024 

Upscale un-college bar with over 

150 types of liquor, an enormous 

martini menu and “night on the 

town” atmosphere. 

Hell 

157 1/2 E Rosemary Street 

919.929.7799 

A basement dive with a good 

jukebox dingy feel lots of concrete 

and cheap cocktail specials and 

bartenders that hate Journey and 

cosmopolitans. Go late for the best 

time. 

Lantern 


919.969.8846 

A dark stylish bar attached to the 

best, if not the only pan-Asian 

restaurant in the Triangle. Offers 

cheap well drinks, specialty cocktail 

menu, sassy bartenders and 

plenty of Chapel Hill intellectual 

conversation plus Lychee Martini’s. 

The Library 

120 E Franklin Street 

919.968.6004 


because you can tell your parents 

you’re at “The Library” and you 

won’t be lying. They are now 

hosting more and better bands. 

Check out indie-rock Tuesdays. 

Local 506 


919.942.5506 

Live music club that showcases 

local and touring rock bands. Its 

everything a local club should be 

-with pool tables, nasty bathrooms 

and cheap drinks. Feels like a dive 

bar – but cooler. Private Club. 

Orange County Social Club 


919.933.0669 

One of the best bars in the area. 

Couches, retro dinette tables, 

pool, cheap drinks, phenomenal 

jukebox, hip intellectual crowd. A 

Hatchet favorite. 

Reservoir 

100-A Brewer Lane 

919.933.3204 

An all metal and indie-rock juke 

box should be all you need to 

hear to get you down to the 

reservoir but there’s more – soviet 

propaganda-inspired murals 

grace the walls and good cheap 

drinks bless your wallet. Plus, the 

bathrooms are adorable. The men’s 

room even has a Lebowski Man of 

the Year Mirror. Good Times! 

Speakeasy 


919.929.6881 

Pool tables, lounge seating and a 

huge selections of tap beers. Grad 

school crowd. Hidden behind an 

unmarked door below Tyler’s Tap 

Room – very clever. 

WILMINGTON 

Barbary Coast 

116 S Front Street 

910.762.8996 

Definitive dive bar with the 

nastiest bathrooms and graffiti 

we’ve ever seen. Frequented by 

local regulars and hip drunks. 

Cheap beer, terribly comfortable. A 

great place to try to get cut off. 

Bluepost Billards 

15 S Water Street 

910.343.1141 

Dark, cool and totally artsy 

especially for a pool hall. Its 

decorated with vintage colored 

glass fixtures and cool posters. 

Plenty of tables and some other 

retro games as well. You gotta go 

down an alleyway to find it. 

Caprice Bistro 

10 Market Street 

910.815.0810 

The second floor of this restaurant 

an intimate New York–style sofa 

bar that specializes in Martinis 

and desert drinks. Hot sofas, local 

artwork, cool atmosphere. 

Firebelly Lounge 

264 Nutt Street 

910.763.0141 

A great place to try to get cut – by 

famous indy film stars. Popular 

late night and weekend bar serves 

cheap drinks and good bar food. 

Pool tables and upbeat noisy 

atmosphere. A good time. 

Hell’s Kitchen 

118 Princess Street 

910.763.4133 

Though this place was made “cool” 

by Dawson’s Creek, it truly is a 

great bar with a nice feel. Good bar 

food and cheap beer. 

Level Five 

21 N Front Street 

910.342.0272 

One of the best bar views going 

– this fifth story rooftop bar 

overlooks the Cape Fear River and 

downtown Wilmington. Serves a 

plethora of frozen New Orleans 

style hurricane drinks. Excellent old 

school bartenders. Classy. 

Lula’s 

138 S Front Street 

910.763.0070 

Underground bar with an old 

double-sided sit down Pacman 

game! Good juke box and foosball. 

Le Catalan 

224 S Water Street 

910.815.0200 

Café and wine bar named for the 

Mediterranean region nestled 

between southeastern France and 

northeastern Spain. Great patio 

overlooking the river. 

Soapbox Laundro-lounge 

255 N Front Street 

910.251.8500 

You always heard the Laundromat 

was a great place to pick up chicks. 

now it is – because they’re drunk. 

Live music, cool art on the walls, 

cheap beer and of course Heavy 

Metal Bingo every Monday night 

– plus coin operated laundry 

facilities in the back. A Hatchet 

favorite. 

Are we Missing anything? 

E-mail us at 


and tell us about your 

favorite bars that are missing 

from this list.

By Charles Mangin 

Beef: It Does a Body Good. 

By Charles Mangin 

After a month of eating turkey leftovers, 

followed by the onslaught of holiday cookies 

and sweets, topped off by another turkey 

feast (or HoneyBaked Ham, like my family), 

then the inevitable binge and purge of New 

Years and its resulting resolutions to lose 

all that holiday weight, it’s about this time 

of year that I start craving red meat. It’s a 

natural reaction 

in those of us 

that are a little 

closer to the 

australopithecus 

end of the 

human family 

tree, myself 

included. 

There’s many 

a time when I 

know I’m craving 

something, but 

I’m not certain 

exactly what. 

I came to the 

conclusion at 

some point 

that what my 

primitive brain is 

trying to tell me 

that I’ve gone 

too long without 

having some 

juicy mastodon 

meat. That being 

in short supply, I 

usually end up going without. 

Some of the guys at work were talking 

about this and other primitive urges the 

other day. Eventually the water cooler 

conversation topic turned from manly meat 

cravings to the question of the best steak we 

had ever eaten. 

Restaurants were mentioned. Heads 

nodded in solemn agreement. Ruth’s Chris. 

A vote for Outback. I personally recall with 

a special fondness an entree of steak au 

poivre at the Public House on the square in 

Roswell, Georgia, near my childhood home. 

My parents were skeptical that I would like 

it, seeing as I hadn’t shown much interest 

in steak up to that point. Add to that the 

description of the dish: sirloin encrusted 

with cracked and whole black and green 

peppercorns. “That’s a lot of pepper,” I 

distinctly remember my mother telling me. 

There aren’t many meals or individual 

dishes that I can still remember so many 

years later, or for that matter recall how they 

tasted or the impression they made on me. 

That steak, though overcooked as I now 

know it was (I’m pretty sure I amateurishly 

ordered it medium well, emphasis on the 

well) still stays with me as a watershed 

moment in my general appreciation of 

food, and of a well-prepared piece of beef 

specifically. 

Yes, it was a lot of pepper. Yes, there were 

whole green peppercorns, but they had 

been tempered in red wine and jus, and the 

experience, while intense, was eye opening, 

not eye watering. 

But that steak, while confirming in my 

14 food 

early years my status as a lifelong carnivore, 

isn’t the one I would say is the best I’ve ever 

had. That particular designation is reserved 

for any of the several meals I’ve enjoyed at 

the Beefmastor Inn. 

The place is a little out of the way for 

most Raleigh dwellers, at 2656 Highway 301 

in Wilson. But, at the risk of sounding more 

cliché than usual, the experience is well 

worth the drive. 

My redneck brother (my only brother, 

for that matter), who lives in Wilson, first 

introduced me several 

years ago, shortly 

after he moved 

there. The manner 

in which he talked 

it up beforehand 

made me skeptical 

of his descriptions. 

Such a place couldn’t 

actually exist, or for 

that matter stay in 

business for very long. 

After my second or 

third visit, I picked 

up a matchbook to 

prove its existence to 

my similarly skeptical 

friends. That, and to 

show them that I 

wasn’t lying. It really is 

spelled that way. 

From inside this 

unassuming, squat, 

brick structure, 

no larger than my 

first one-bedroom 

apartment, issues the 

greatest ribeye steaks ever tasted by man. 

At least by this man, and I’ve eaten my share 

of beef since my Roswell revelation. Small it 

may be, but it has everything it needs, and 

no more. The dining room consists of maybe 

ten tables, almost guaranteeing a full house 

all night, every night. The kitchen, if it can 

indeed be called such, is little more than a 

one-man grill station, surrounded on three 

sides by flame-licked grills and prep surfaces, 

with access to the pantry and walk-in 

behind it. There is a salad bar along one wall, 

a counter and cash register along the other,

flanking the front door. 

Along with your toppings from the salad 

bar and how you choose to pay, the only 

choices you have to make once inside are 

what to drink (typically a selection of beer 

or iced tea) and how much meat you want. 

There is no menu. 

The chef visits your table once you’re 

settled in, carrying a knife and cutting board, 

upon which rests a ribeye primal. He then 

cuts your steak to order by asking you to 

specify how much, in ounces, you want. He 

typically lays the knife upon a generous 

portion, describing it as “eight ounces, for 

the ladies.” You can ask for your serving to 

be any size, and I imagine he’d cook up the 

whole slab for you if you asked him to. For 

the right price. 

The entree arrives at the table shortly 

thereafter with a baked potato and a hunk 

of Texas toast. If they’re in season, you can 

also request a baked sweet onion on the 

side. 

Not only is there no menu, there is 

no lobby or waiting area. The parking lot 

suffices. On a typical busy night, the lot is full 

of families and couples tailgating in their 

cars and trucks, drinking beer from coolers 

or ordered from inside, awaiting the call. 

Every now and then, the waitress will step 

outside and yell a name, indicating that their 

time is finally come. As small as the place 

is, all tables are on a first come, first served 

basis. To guarantee a seating, get there early. 

Luckily they’re open seven days, from five 

to ten. 

I suppose I should back up at this point 

and clarify. The steaks from Beefmastor are 

the best I’ve tasted that I didn’t cook. Eating 

at a restaurant is such a different experience 

from cooking at home, especially grilling 

with family and friends, that I feel I need to 

qualify my earlier statements in this manner. 

On the other hand, I can’t claim that I’ve 

ever once made a ribeye taste as vital and 

potent as the proprietors of the Beefmastor 

do every day, and hundreds of times every 

week. Replicating the well-seasoned grill and 

mysteries of that blissfully good, deceptively 

simple steak at home would require 

more time, money and effort than simply 

driving to Wilson and having dinner at the 

Beefmastor whenever the craving hit you. 

When I forego the hour trip (45 minutes, 

tops, now that 264 is open) and grill at home, 

I take some small but effective steps to give 

my own steaks a leg up. Feel free to follow 

along at home the next time you grill. 

Prep begins with just a few drops of 

peanut oil, and then only if the meat is dry 

on the outside. Each side is then sprinkled 

with equal parts salt (kosher if you have it) 

and sugar. Just a dusting is enough, it’s not 

like dredging parts for fried chicken. 

And that’s it. Don’t try to be elaborate 

and marinate the meat, inject spices with 

one of those syringe doodads, or build up 

a rub with complicated flavors. Remember 

that beef is best when it’s dry aged, and 

the flavors are allowed to mellow and 

concentrate, and some of the proteins 

break down. Butchers and fancy, expensive 

steakhouses know this, and do it all on the 

premises, sometimes for months before 

it’s served. I tend to think marinated 

meat doesn’t taste more like steak, it 

tastes more like the marinade, which is 

counterproductive if what you’re after is a 

good steak. 

Most likely, your grill, like mine, is a few 

thousand firings short of the well seasoned 

cast iron of the pros, but even so, if you get it 

blazing hot before the meat hits it, the sear 

it produces is sufficient to make my mouth 

water in almost painful anticipation of the 

coming meal. Between the salt pulling some 

moisture and soluble proteins onto the 

surface of the meat, and the sugar, which 

dissolves in the juice, then crystallizes and 

caramelizes on the grill, steaks cooked in 

this manner way have an outer crust that is 

superior to most of the grilled steaks I get in 

lesser restaurants. After a brief kiss on both 

sides from the fires of Hell, back off the flame 

for the remaining cook time. Flip once more 

to even everything out and you’re done. 

No steak sauce should be required if you 

haven’t overcooked it. I’ll leave my standard 

rant about how red meat should be red for 

another time. 

Share and enjoy. 

15

YOUR BAND HERE 

Who's Got The Chops? 

First Annual Hatchet Music Sampler 

2006 

k, after three years of reviews, interviews, and essays, we here at the Raleigh Hatchet have finally decided to step up and put 

ut a product for the rest of you to judge. In September 2006, we will be putting forth to the public the first “Hatchet Music 

ampler” to be distributed with the first ever Raleigh Hatchet music issue. There will be 16 spots available for bands from the 

outh-Eastern United States who want their music to be heard by our readers. The first 1,500 prints of the September addition 

f the Hatchet will include a free CD of what a panel of independent judges within the North Carolina music community 

etermine to be the most relevant and exciting new music coming from our local scene. All songs to be considered must be no 

ore than five minutes in length and must be ready for mass-production. The tracks that are selected for use will be mastered 

y us for volume and continuity only (so send it in the way you want it to be heard.) 

The deadline for the 2006 Hatchet Music Sampler is May 15, 2006. 

Please send all submissions to: The Raleigh Hatchet, 801 W. Cabarrus St., Raleigh, NC 27603 

We are looking forward to listening. 

ands must send one song only for consideration. Tracks to be considered for use must be previously un-released* All tracks must be originals** The 

aleigh Hatchet retains the rights to this compilation only (not the songs….they are yours and you are free to include any track submitted for use on 

his disc for any FUTURE recording.) 

Previously “self released” recordings will still be considered 

* This only applies to covers that do not fall under the rights of the Public Domain.

hack Jackets 

Album cover art that deserves to die lives… 

on the Internet 

y Peter Schmehl 

t may not quite rank up there with 

fforts to save the Snow Leopard or 

he Red Cockaded Woodpecker from 

xtinction, but conservation minded 

ndividuals all over the world are 

ollecting and showcasing on the web all 

hose albums which, via mechanisms akin 

o Darwinism, will probably never make 

he transition to CD and whatever format 

omes next. Of course this is by no means 

case of survival of the fittest, instead 

t’s survival of the popular and profitable. 

any exceptional albums along with 

any films and paintings, etc, could be 

ost forever if not properly preserved. 

It’s easy enough to find petitions 

nline requesting the release of some 

lbum on CD that currently exists only 

n vinyl, now long out of print, and only 

scapes extinction in the form of inferior 

uality bootlegs. As an example, consider 

he petition directed at Reprise Records 

o reissue Neil Young’s 1973 “Time Fades 

way”. Among Neil Young fans it’s akin 

to the Holy Grail and Young’s own 

disparaging remarks about the album 

only seem to fan the flame. 

One online petition site 

www.petitionspot.com) has collected 

ore than 5,000 signatures in the last 10 

onths in an effort to save the album. 

pparently this is not yet close enough to 

critical mass for Reprise to respond. Of 

ourse, this is the same label that decided 

ilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” would 

ot be economically viable enough to 

arrant releasing, so I wouldn’t hold my 

reath. 

These noble efforts mentioned above 

re all well and good, but the efforts 

’m more interested in at the moment 

re aimed at preserving all the other 

lbums that were recorded, produced 

nd completely forgotten, all those less 

usically inspiring albums, all the ones 

hat amaze us mostly by virtue of the fact 

hey were even made to begin with. You 

now, the crap. 

The websites showcasing these 

lbums tend not to focus on the musical 

ontent at all, ‘cause after all, it’s really, 

eally bad. The sites are instead devoted 

o preserving these album recovered 

rom basements and thrift store bins 

ll over the country, for the covers, that 

ingle square foot of some of the worst 

rt you’ve ever seen. 

The 12” x 12” Canvas 

I’ve wasted so many hours. Time I could 

have spent figuring out why my car starts 

spewing smoke the moment I decide to 

have it inspected, or where that mysterious 

smell in my apartment is coming from. 

But instead I’ve sat for days on end, a 

mixed and now somewhat muted look 

of shock and amusement affixed to my 

face. Perhaps it’s stuck there. And worse 

yet, I’m afraid this might qualify as a new 

addiction I might have to mention in 

group. 

Bad album art; I’m sometimes 

convinced that it has more in common 

with staring at car wrecks or crime scene 

photos than it does with gallery hopping 

on First Friday. Some of these covers are 

absolutely horrible, some are just bizarre, 

but so many more are mesmerizing in 

their painful and awkward simplicity. It 

can be so hard to rip your eyes away. Many 

of these albums covers actually provoke 

profound feelings of pity. You might find 

yourself asking, “How could anyone have 

thought this was a good idea for an album 

cover?” 

And who cares what it sounds like? 

Do I really care what “Christmas with 

Doug Oldham” sounds like? No, no I really 

don’t. But meanwhile, the album cover 

is absolutely unforgettable. It’s a simple 

portrait of Doug Oldham, his wife, and his 

three daughters. But it’s so much more! 

It begs so many questions! How exactly 

did Doug get so fat? And where did he 

get those shoes? Clearly only two of the 

daughters picked up dad’s eating habits. 

One stands like a mountain directly 

behind where Doug is seated on the 

couch, the other sits at his feet. But the 

third daughter, probably the oldest, is a 

fox! As if to accentuate this point she’s 

wearing a pink dress whereas the rest of 

the family is dressed in black and white or 

shades of gray. She sits there at the edge 

of the frame with that come hither kind of 

half smile while the rest of her family grin 

like morons, one of her hands tentatively, 

almost awkwardly resting on some book 

wrapped in gaudy Christmas paper. Her 

other hand is obscured behind a black ball 

of fur that’s probably a cat. This serves to 

further accentuating the tension between 

her and her fat sisters, one of whom holds 

a white and silver dog in her lap. I have a 

feeling the photographer knew what he or 

she was doing. It’s a Christmas album, sure, 

but a hint of sexual suggestion couldn’t 

music 

17

hurt. It’s 1972 after all. 

Perhaps it’s an unusual aesthetic I’m 

uncovering here (sorry about the pun), 

an interest in all things awkward, kitsch, 

gaudy, or pathetic as art. Or perhaps 

this is just another strange fixation that 

sometimes causes me to stay up way too 

late and forget to pay my bills on time. But 

thankfully I’m not the only one, indeed 

there are many others out there with the 

same sort of visual appetites as mine. And 

web sites are popping up all over the place 

to feed this new interest. I’ve bookmarked 

many for added convenience. 

A Quick Start Guide 

This is a short list of sites to get you going. 

FYI: none of these are commercial sites, 

they just put these covers out there for 

posterity. 

Our Lady of Perpetual Obsolescence 

Vinyl Rescue Mission and Orphanage 

www.vinylorphanage.com 

This is a great place to begin. In fact, this 

is where my addiction got its start. The 

great thing about this site is not only the 

extensive links to other sites like it, but also 

the “Weekly MP3 Talent Show”. 

The Perfect Square Foot 

www.swankola.com/psf/psf.html 

A really well put together site. Mostly 

50’s and 60’s albums and a little heavy 

on the kitsch, but conveniently arranged 

by themes such as limbo, scooters, and 

Liberace. 

Pop Cult 

www.popcultmag.com 

This site deals with a fair bit more than 

just album art, but their collection is quite 

extensive. Follow the “Odd Glimpses” link 

and try not to get lost. 

Dana Countryman’s Virtual Museum of 

Unusual LP Cover Art 

www.danacountryman.com/danacovers/ 

danacovers.html 

This site is as awkward as the album art 

showcased, but it’s a good collection 

nonetheless, and it’s the only site I’ve 

found that has a section devoted to 

“clown” themed covers…if you’re into that 

kind of thing of course. 

18

The Sweetest Hangover 

An interview with Richard Alwyn 

y D.A. Nation 

o matter how disappointing your 

Valentines Day is this year, you can 

t least look forward to the hangover. 

he Love Hangover that is, because on 

ebruary 15 th , should you find your self 

n the Triangle or New York City, you can 

elebrate your love of great duets by 

reat artists. Every year on that same 

ay of anticlimax musicians pair up to 

erform great love songs with each 

ther. 

ow a mainstay of east-coast indie 

usic culture, the great LH was once 

ust a good idea hatched by writer and 

usician Richard Alwyn. Two years 

go, when he decided to put 

he “Y” in his NC he took the 

angover he couldn’t 

et over with him to 

rooklyn. Recently, 

he Hatchet caught 

p with Alwyn via 

mail: 

) Can you tell us the 

istory of the Love 

angover? 

he first Love Hangover was 

n 2000. I really wanted to see 

ana Kletter and Doug MacMillan 

lay together again. I had seen them 

n the April Fools doing these Burt 

acharach songs and thought that 

f I put this themed night songwriter 

how together, they’d be perfect. Tift 

erritt and The Two Dollar Pistols had 

ust released the EP they had recorded 

ogether and I had been trying to get 

aroline Mamoulides and Scott Phillips 

o meet and sing together. And the 

ovely and talented Sara Bell agreed to 

ing with me to round out the lineup. 

ana and Doug were doing the Diana 

oss song and that became the title 

f the show. Incidentally, they played 

hat night as The Love Ltd. Orchestra, 

hich also continued on and with the 

ddition of Bo Taylor, Neal Fisher, first 

hris Dalton and then Brian Walsby 

nd myself—[it] was one of my favorite 

laying experiences ever. 

2) Have you ever had an actual “love 

hangover”? 

What are you making fun of me? I think 

you served me many a drink to get 

through some of them. I believe everyone 

has been hurt in love unless they’re really 

lucky or just aren’t doing it right. 

3) Has anyone ever performed Diana 

Ross’s song, “love hangover”? 

Dana and Doug the first year and last year 

at the first NY Love Hangover, I played it 

with Kate Dwyer who is a great singer here 

in New York. 

4) Please recall some 

memorable LH performances 

There are so many. I always like to see 

what people choose to do. Caitlin Cary 

is always great and Scott Phillips as well. 

Last year Pete Fitzpatrick (guitar player for 

Clem Snide) and his wife Anna Johannson 

were absolutely brilliant. I had never seen 

them play and had no idea what to expect, 

but they were spot on. 

5) If you could pick any two performers, 

living or dead to duet, who would they 

be and what would they do? 

Dusty Springfield and Serge Gainsbourg, 

Liz Phair and Leonard Cohen (as long as 

their new producers stayed away from it), 

Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash (with Rick 

Rubin picking the setlist). That’s fun, I could 


19 

probably spend hours making pairs, but 

those are the first three that come to mind. 

6) How did the idea take off in NYC? 

Really well. Last year it was at one of my 

favorite NY bars, Pete’s Candy Store in 

Williamsburg. It was packed and everyone 

really got into the concept, all the players 

really got the idea even though it was new 

to them. 

7) To wax philosophic for us, why do you 

think we still celebrate Valentines Day? 

Well, the traditionalists would complain 

that we’ve lost the true concept of St. 

Valentine, didn’t he lead all the squirrels 

out of Ireland or something? Actually I 

think no matter how cynical a person is, it’s 

hard to find someone who doesn’t in some 

small, sappy corner of their hearts 

believe in love. 

8) Roses or whiskey? 

Both. Always both. Roses 

first then whiskey then roses 

again. 

This years line up at Kings in 

Raleigh includes Aimee Argote 

(Des Ark) with Daniel Hart (Physics 

of Meaning), Alysse Cullinan (Death 

& Taxes (of Richmond)) with Craig Tilley 

(Birds of Avalon), Katrina Lamberto (ex- 

The Ready Set) with Joey Fralin, Lynda 

Wittig Dawson (The Kickin Grass Band) 

with Nathan Brown (Regina Hexaphone) 

and Staci Sawyer (Walking Running) 

with Nathan Golub (Cadillac Stepbacks; 

Fontana). 

In Brooklyn at the Bar Nine look 

forward to Anna Johansson (The Green 4) 

and Pete Fitzpatrick (Clem Snide, Phantom 

Power), Margaret White (Cat Power, Regina 

Hexaphone, ex-Comas) and Scott Johnson, 

Jules Verdone and Keir Woods (The King 

Canutes), Kenall Meade (Mascott) and 

Richard Alwyn (The King Canutes, ex-Red 

Dagger White Horse/Luxuries) and Lara 

Ewen along with Bryan Dunn. 

For more info check the clubs’ sites 

at www.kingsbarcade.com and 

www.barnine.com

The Greatest Love (Song) of All 

The Greatest Love (Song) of All 

Indeed, you’d think that people would 

have had enough of silly love songs. God 

knows enough of them really do suck. At 

their worst they’re trite, pathetic and often 

just creepy. At their best they’re still all 

those things, just put more eloquently 

than we could say it ourselves. Recently, 

our legendary team of Hatchet researchers 

sent out an email survey asking our friends 

and readers to tell us, on the condition of 

anonymity, about the love songs they just 

can’t shake. According to our data it seems 

that anyone seen reading a Hatchet will 

hump anything close by whenever an Al 

Greene song is playing. Also, collectively 

we hate Celine Dion and are only sad that 

Leo drowned in that godforsaken boat 

movie because that meant Kate Winslet’s 

love would “go on” (instead of running 

the usual course of co-dependency and 

disappointment) and thusly resulting 

in an extremely irritating love song. 

However, the most startling and perhaps 

telling information we received was that 

Leonard Cohen’s “So Long Marianne” was 

22 individual readers favorite love song. To 

those people we’ve sent our staff shrink’s 

number. The rest of you, we hope, will 

accept this list as our valentine, because we 

do love you, just not enough to drop $7.99 

on a red plush horny devil doll. 

A few love songs we love…and why 

Ruby Don’t Take Your Love To Town 

Written by Mel Tillis & sung by Kenny 

Rogers 

I helped a friend move to Halifax, Nova 

Scotia and neither of us had ever visited 

Halifax before this trip. After 24 hours one 

of us remarked upon the large number 

of disabled people around town and 

he later discovered there was a large 

hospital/school in the city that specializes 

in therapies for disabled people. But when I 

left Halifax after 2 days, the disabilities were 

still an unexplained phenomenon to me. I 

caught a ferry back to Maine and there was 

a casino and bar on the boat. I had a drink 

in the bar and watched people sing karaoke, 

including an angry 50 year-old man, with 

a nice voice, who sang “Ruby Don’t Take 

Your Love To Town”. It wrecked the place. 

I’d never paid attention to the lyrics, or the 

song for that matter, until I heard the man 

sing this song from his wheelchair. Some 

people were oblivious but of those listening 

some were crying, some were shocked—all 

were uncomfortable. It was the all-time 

20 


biggest bummer bomb detonation I’ve 

ever experienced. I hated my government 

for wrecking this man and I hated this man 

for his display of emotional nakedness and 

how bad it made me feel. It was awesome. 

Zak and Sara 

Ben Folds 

It’s the ultimate romantic song because it’s 

simultaneously carnal and angry 

and youthful without a trace of sentiment. 

Downtown 

The Flatlanders (Jimmie Dale Gilmore) 

No contest. 

Hurt 

Nine Inch Nails 

My favorite Valentine’s song. SO much so, 

that i routinely request it on many radio 

stations on sweet Valentine’s Day and they 

all pshaw me. Fuckers. What do they know 

about love? I mean pain. 

Groove Me Baby 

King Floyd 

Mainly for the Aw sookie sookie part. 

I’m Not In Love 

10 cc 

Do I really need to explain why? Well, like 

so many others, I fell into a bad relationship, 

one of many, to this song. This song, if you 

can believe it, was “our” song. It was a crazy 

and ridiculous time in my life. This person 

became the person all others were judged 

by. It was a sad and dangerous game. I was 

going to jest about my life being “so much 

better,” but it actually is better and I have 

not had a decent hook up in years. Thank 

God! 

Songbird 

Fleetwood Mac 

They all hated each other when they wrote 

this. 

I Only Have Eyes for You 

The Flamingos 

What a perfect love song. Love is a little silly 

and really hard to get right—just like doowop. 

Plus it’s spooky. 

Alright, Okay You Win 

Peggy Lee 

Sung with absolute resignation, the 

conversational tone of this recording is a 

turn-on. 

I Wanna Sex You Up 

Color Me Bad 

Obviously my favorite love song is “Love 

Song” by the Cure. I can’t help it, but then 

again, I’ve never tried to help it. I’m a sucker 

with a mushy squishy heart. I have to say 

though, my guiltiest pleasure love song 

begins with the infamous “ohh oh ohh oh 

oh oh. C’mon baby where you goin’ Cos you 

know I want it…”- that’s right ladies and 

gentlemen… it is the greatest bumpin’ and 

gridin’ tune to play immediately following a 

few shots of tequila. 

Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) 

The Beatles 

When I was an idealistic/younger dude, 

my favorite love song was Stevie Wonder’s 

“I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be 

Forever)”, however now that I’m a little more 

experienced/jaded, it would have be this 

one. 

Love Songs we Hate…and how 

I Want You to Want Me 

Cheap Trick 

The lyrics are so asinine and childish, 

repetitive and predictable. 

Wind Beneath My Wings 

Bette Midler 

I once dated a guy who thought that 

playing jungle music would get me in the 

mood, suffice to say, he was wrong. That 

relationship was short lived. I also dated a 

guy who tried to impress me by playing The 

Wall while we watched the first half of The 

Wizard of Oz. I would much rather watch 

The Wiz starring Diana Ross while listening 

to Ozzy. Who’s tried that one? But, my least 

favorite love song has to be Wind Beneath 

My Wings by Bette Midler. It makes me cry 

every time. Poor Blossom. 

Yummy Yummy Yummy (I’ve Got Love in 

my Tummy) 

Ohio Express 

It’s such a disgusting song, just the title, I 

mean in your “tummy” are you five? What’s 

exactly is in your tummy? How did it get 

there? It’s just gross. And stupid. 

Being With You 

Smokey Robinson 

Don’t get me wrong, I love the man, but old 

Smokey’s going to need a lot more than 

three miracles if he expects this song to 

come off like anything other than the great 

stalker’s anthem of ’81. Did he listen to what 

he was saying? “I don’t care if you try to 

avoid me…I don’t care what you do. I don’t 

care about anything else but being with 

you.” I want to take out a restraining order 

every time I hear it.

Subjects of Change 

It’s a Dog Eat Dog World…or is it? 

By D.A. Nation 

What’s been going on? 

This was once innocent an question I 

could reply to with answers like “Nothing. 

I just totally slept through my Social 

Deviance class” or “Not much. Dad’s been 

a total cock-knocker about the storm 

door getting kicked in 

on Friday.” But things 

have changed. Father 

Time’s been following 

behind me turning the 

old thermostat down 

for a few years now. 

College is over. My 

friends are getting a 

collective life. Taking 

good jobs. Fornicating 

for the sake of creating 

offspring. Diversifying 

their portfolios. 

Simplifying their lives. 

Meanwhile I feel like 

all I’ve done is learn to 

put on a sweater and 

try to behave as if I 

have some semblance 

of direction. There are 

times when I feel so lost 

that I am flooded with a 

great anxiety whenever 

I run into someone 

I haven’t seen in a 

while. Even someone I 

actually like. 

A typical situation 

could go something 

like this: I’m sitting at 

my favorite bar. No, 

wait, I’m working at 

my favorite bar, and 

Regina the Recent Nonsmoker 

comes in. She’s 

full to the perfectly 

highlighted rim with underhanded 

cheekiness, she doesn’t even have to say 

anything, I can just tell. When she sits 

down, she smiles and then says, “What’ve 

you been up to?” 

“Oh you know,” I shrug, “working, 

hanging out. The usual stuff” 

What I’m really thinking is more like 

“working on finding a doctor who’ll 

prescribe me Xanax and hanging over 

the top of my pants. Jesus, Gina, I admit 

it. I haven’t been doing enough. I haven’t 

been to Europe yet and I still only speak 

one language. Honestly, I need to be at 

home right now because if I’m up too late 

and sleep through my doorbell ringing 

again and don’t let the gas guy in and my 

heat won’t get turned back on. Are you 

happy? My love to your husband.” 

Listen up people, we all want a way 

out of that moral trench of a conversation 

and I am here to tell you. There’s 

something else, the afterworld. A world of 

never-ending happiness, you can always 

see the sun, day or night. But please 

don’t kill yourself. I’m just talking about 

changing the subject. 

I am learning to embrace the idea 

that no one really cares all that much 

what you or me or anyone else is “up to.” 

All I need to be rid once and for all of an 

unfortunate and unintentional psyche 

beat-down is an arsenal of bizarre trivial 

topics that link together like the great 

Lexus-Nexus. Where to start is another 

matter. And the success or failure of a 

conversational rescue depends a good 

deal on the choice made here. It is crucial 

react quickly but with the randomness 

of a child. There was 

a time, before any of 

us had anything real 

“important” to talk 

about that a statement 

like “my favorite cereal 

is Cookie Crisp” was 

enough to get things 

started. Let’s go back 

there, shall we? 

Take for example 

pets, say, dogs. A lot 

of people have a dog 

and most of them who 

do spend a ridiculous 

amount of time 

thinking about said 

dog. People who don’t 

even have dogs still 

have opinions about 

dogs. So let me ask you 

a question, a question 

you yourself might 

one day want to ask of 

someone. Do you think 

that if he were locked 

in your apartment 

with you when you 

died, your dog would 

eat your carcass? 

Specifically, if he was 

trapped without any 

other food, for like 

three days, and it 

was eat you or die? 

Sure it’s macabre, 

but would you rather 

talk about why your life is on the slow 

train to Shitsville? Anyway, there are 

some important issues tied into this 

question. Like the good old Nature vs. 

Nurture topic, or the limits to a particular 

person’s capacity for trust. Then there’s 

the understanding of canine behavior, 

an individual’s gross-out point or her 

willingness to talk about something 

unlikely just for the sake of talking about 

it. These are important things to know 

21

22 

about the people in your world, and 

frankly, it would be boring just to come 

out and ask them. But would their most 

trusted friend be willing to devour their 

flesh out of panic and starvation? That’s 

epic conversation. 

I like to think, though not in too 

great detail, that by time my dogs got 

so hungry they would be willing to eat 

me (what was left of me after my cat was 

finished, that is, because I think we can all 

agree that a cat would start snacking on 

it’s owners corpse by the 12 th hour) I’d be 

too rancid for them to find tasty anymore. 

Believe it or not this was an actual 

conversation I had with a few of my 

friends in a bowling alley diner once. 

I now recognize it as a very Chuck 

Klosterman-esque moment. Any one 

could at this point feel free to break off 

into discourse about Klosterman’s books 

Killing Yourself to Live, Fargo Rock City or 

Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puffs—a book in 

which he describes a question he asks 

all of his friends to ascertain whether 

they would prefer, if forced, to earnestly 

attempt to kick a Clydesdale to death or 

display Adolph Hitler’s scull in their home 

without being able to defend themselves 

for doing so. Now that’s a great question, 

so take it and run if you’re so inclined. 

I’ve casually whipped the dog-eatdead 

body question out a couple of 

times. Once when a friend was being 

obviously, painfully dragged into a boring 

conversation about his job, and again 

at a cocktail party when I was obviously, 

painfully drunk, the later instance not 

coming across as successfully as the first, 

which only goes to show that a chef 

would rather talk about almost anything 

after a shift than food costs, and also that 

perhaps there is a right and a wrong way 

to slur any sentence. 

Through my careful research I’ve 

discovered that most of the people I 

know believe their dog would eat them. 

They don’t even hesitate. And honestly I 

am startled at the number of my friends 

who seem perfectly willing to live with 

a creature they believe is just waiting to 

munch on their lifeless flesh. Thank god 

there is a possibility they may be wrong. 

How do I know? I know because 

I’ve asked the experts. Specifically, I’ve 

emailed a handful of animal behaviorists 

and online vets, and to my surprise one 

of them actually responded! According 

to a particularly unshakeable individual 

at digitaldog.com “the most common 

response on the part of most companion 

animals (keeping in mind that a solid 

relationship usually exists between those 

that live together since dogs view it as a 

pack) is that they typically curl up near 

the dead companion (being it human 

or canine) in a seeming attempt to 

keep them warm. So, with what limited 

information there is available, I would say 

it is very unlikely which is not the same as 

impossible.” 

But of course, there is plenty of 

evidence to support the opposing 

viewpoint. For example on May 15, 

2002 CNN reported that in Austria a 78- 

year-old woman who had died alone 

about three weeks beforehand was 

almost entirely devoured by her German 

shepherd. The dog had been in the house 

with her when she suffered a heart attack 

and made haste for the sweet hereafter. 

All the doors and windows in the house 

being locked, the poor critter was forced 

to eat its owners body to avoid starving. 

And to further the evidence on June 

3, 2004 an elderly man in Florida died 

in his home and was partially eaten by 

his Labrador retriever puppy. After the 

disturbing discovery, the family, according 

to the NBC affiliate in Philadelphia, FL, 

was looking to for someone to adopt the 

dog. This proves at least one thing: that 

Floridians are goddamn idiots. It might 

also indicate that the elderly should not 

live alone with canine companions. I don’t 

know. 

At this point, the conversation may 

start to move in to heavy areas, like 

animal rights or the likelihood of dying 

alone and forgotten. Not good. Time 

for me to pull out something more 

lighthearted, like the entomology of 

the phrase “dog eat dog.” Turns out 

this common slang originated from 

the Roman man of letters Marcus 

Tarentius Varro, who in 43 B.C., noted 

that “Canis caninam non est” (“Dog 

does not eat dog”), meaning that even 

a “lowly” creature like the dog has his 

limits, if not principles, and will not 

destroy its own kind. According to 

worddetective.com, “by the 16th century, 

folks were imagining a world in which 

metaphorical dogs did devour each other, 

and ‘dog eat dog’ had come to mean 

‘ruthlessly competitive.’ “ And now we’re 

all wearing milk bone shorts. 

Now, the only thing for me to do is 

to direct all parties who can still feign 

interest to Nick Lowe’s stellar pop ditty 

“Marie Provost”—a jaunty number 

about a silent film actress eaten by her 

dachshund. Or better yet, play it. Then for 

chrissake buy a round of shots and move 

along. Subject changed.

Ackland Art Museum 

Columbia St. UNC Campus, Chapel 

Hill 966.5736 

April and George 

414 Glenwood Avenue, Raleigh 

828-9082 

Artspace 

201 E. Davie St., Raleigh 821.2787 

Basement Studios 

300 Glenwood, Ave Raleigh 

Bickett Gallery 

209 Bickett Blvd., Raleigh 836.5358 

Bleeker St Studios 

406 E. Main St., Carrboro 

968-3433 

Branch Gallery, Ltd 

205 W. Weaver Street, 

Carrboro 919.918.1116 

www.branchgallery.com 

CAM 

409 West Martin St., Raleigh 836- 

0088 

Chapel Hill Museum 

523 East Franklin St. , Chapel Hill 

967-1400 

Craven Allen Gallery 

1106 Broad St., Durham 286-4837 

Design Box 

315 S. Bloodworth St., Raleigh 

834-3552 

Duke University Museum of Art 

Duke Univ. East Campus, Durham 

684-5135 

Durham Arts Council 

120 Morris St., Durham 560-2787 

Firefly 

605 Glenwood Ave. , Raleigh 

821-4536 

Gallery 18 

18 E Salisbury St. Pittsboro 545- 

9255 

Gallery C 

3532 Wade Ave. , Raleigh 828-3165 

Glance Galleries 

311 W Martin St., Raleigh 

821-2200 

Greenhouse Studios 

1 Ashe Ave., Raleigh 836-8573 

HL Gallery 

319 W. Martin St., Raleigh 

Jill Flink Fine Art 

1500 Clark Ave., Raleigh 

821-7172 

Kirk Adam Gallery 

107 W Hargett St., Raleigh 

601-3131 

Lee Hansley Gallery 

225 Glenwood Ave., Raleigh 

828-7557 

Litmus 

312 W. Cabarrus St., Raleigh 828- 

5559 

gallery list 

Local Color 

22 Glenwood Ave. South, Raleigh 851- 

0443 

Lump 

505 South Blount St., Raleigh 

821-9999 

NC Museum of Art 

2110 Blue Ridge Rd., Raleigh 

839-6262, 

NCCU Art Museum 

Lawson St., NCCU Campus, Durham, 

530-6211 

NCSU Gallery of Art & Design 

Talley Center, NCSU Campus, Raleigh 

515-3503 

Raleigh Contemporary Gallery 

323 Blake St., Raleigh 828-6500 

Rebus Works 

301-2 Kinsey St., Raleigh 

754-8452 

Series One Studios 

102 W. Main St., Carrboro 969-8059 

Sizl 

405 East Main St. , Carrboro 960-0098 

Tatoo Devil Studios 

1215 Hillsborough ST Raleigh, NC 919) 

834-8055 

The Tire Shop 

428 South McDowell St., Raleigh 829- 

1577 

Through This Lens Photography Gallery 

303 E Chapel Hill St. , Durham, NC 

27701, 919.687.0250 

http://throughthislens.com 

Tyndall Gallery 

201 S. Estes Dr., Chapel Hill 

942-2290 

Visual Art Exchange 

325 Blake St., Raleigh 828-7834 

Wootini Gallery 

200 N. Greensboro St., Carrboro 

Where is 

your Gallery? 

To have your gallery 

listed here email 


and include “Hatchet 

gallery list” in the subject 

heading.

Art and Commerce? 

By Michael Israel Gorelic 

Sitting high atop the newly demolished 

Fayetteville Mall, I’m across the desk from 

Tracey Spencer, the lead in Raleigh’s new 

emerging art scene. Sitting next to me 

is Katie Covington, a Raleigh artist who 

works in found art and vintage pieces, 

who now slouches deep into her vinyl 

club chair. Both women are diminutive in 

stature but Herculean in mind especially 

when it comes to their latest endeavor, HL 

Gallery. 

We were waiting for Vuokko (not her 

real name, just the nomenclature she 

chose for herself ), but she had been 

detained by traffic. These days the 

Triangle has a mean rush hour. The 

area is growing in population at a vast 

rate, bringing to Raleigh a more urban 

direction. Underground music houses, 

coffee bars, experimental art houses 

have all popped up in areas once 

inhabited by boarded up buildings and 

crack dwellings. So, it’s no wonder her 

arrival has been delayed. As disgusted 

as many long-time Raleighites may 

seem when confronted with the 

growth of our once sleepy quaint 

Capital City/college town, its growth is 

a thrilling part of the success of artists 

who show with HL Gallery. Also integral, 

and perhaps most interesting is the 

participation of local real estate mogul 

Greg Hatem. 

Greg’s company Empire Properties 

allows these kids to use his unoccupied 

buildings, now totaling somewhere 

around 150,000 square feet just in the 

downtown Raleigh area, to house their 

exhibitions. Tracey and Katie along with 

another artist, Sean Vance, who also 

shows with HL all work for Greg at Empire. 

It seems fortuitous that they got the 

opportunity to showcase their work, but as 

Tracey put it, “ one day Greg offhandedly 

said hey, you can show your work in one 

of my buildings and I never let him forget 

it.” Greg has been an important cog in 

the HL Gallery phenom. Of course, of this 

glad-handing isn’t merely an altruistic 

gesture— Greg hopes to lease these 

unoccupied and mostly historical small 

buildings to new tenants, drawing them 

to the location with art. When asked about 

the success rate of this collaboration 

Tracey replied, “it’s only the second show 

but they do have a tenant for the Helig 

24 

Levin Building, although not a result of the 

show, it’s more a self-inflicted one, since it’s 

an Empire restaurant that will be taking 

up space.” Many of those who attend 

openings have voiced opinions that the 

spaces should remain galleries, but that 

doesn’t seem to be one of the options on 

the books at the moment. 

HL Gallery started as a brainchild 

of Tracey Spencer. Her propensity for 

showcasing artist’s works stems from the 

time she spent as director of the student 

gallery for three years while attending 

NC State’s School of Art and Design. She 

relishes the idea of providing young 

otherwise unnoticed, yet talented, artists 

a chance to show their work. On the 

business end, even if Empire never leases 

a space, this gaggle of canvas totters will 

be pleased. “I think a lot of people come to 

the shows and associate really cool places 

with Empire properties, it gets the word 

out about Empire even if it’s not about the 

space that’s trying to be rented.” Said Katie. 

Tracey continued on this thought, “one of 

the things that’s great about working at 

Empire is that Greg wants you to grow as a 

person as much as he wants the company 

to grow.” Still in it’s infancy HL Gallery has 

a cacophony of young creative minds 

including: Mathew Goldfarb, Jackson 

Hodges, Andy Heymann, Sean Vance, 

Sydney O’Hare, Shannon Gray, David 

Milsaps, Vuokko, Katie Covington and of 

course Tracey Spencer. In all, ten artists 

make up this round table. “It started out 

with six artist’s and this last show was ten, 

it may be more in the spring since word 

of mouth has spread about the work.” 

Tracey beemed proudly as she slumped 

comfortably and seemingly confidently 

into the swivel chair across the desk from 

both Katie and I. Everyone except Vuokka 

were at one time or another students 

of the art and design school at State. 

Tracey happened upon Vuokka’s work 

by accident, and she was captivated 

enough by its uniqueness to extend 

an invitation to join the fold. It’s been 

working ever since. 

While success hasn’t been 

determined yet by dollar signs, 

Tracey’s installation piece didn’t and 

wasn’t for sale, Vuokko’s ‘Office Lady” 

performance art piece was too big to 

carry-out in a brown designer shopping 

bag, and Katie’s success as of yet to 

merely barter with another artist in 

the group, one of her pieces for theirs, 

is still yet to be charted on a profit 

margin pie chart, it seems monetary 

goals aren’t the share reason for HL 

and Empire’s collaboration. Success 

like art is beholden to the eye of the 

viewer. “Two artist’s are going on to 

do their own show because of this last 

one from HL” again Tracey spoke like a 

proud parent as she pushed into the 

back of her chair, hands clasped on 

her lap, fingers entwined. She speaks 

of finding pleasure in making other 

people successful. Even a cynic like me 

believes this. 

Tracey herself will be showing at 

Rebus Works due to the success of her 

last one with HL Gallery. No date has been 

solidified and her reticence to speak of any 

particular artistic success was buried by 

a strong sense of terrortory or at the very 

least a strong belief in superstion? Katie is 

currently showing at April and George and 

will also be exhibiting a few of her pieces 

at Rebus Works in the upcoming months. 

The curator of Rebus Works is a big 

supporter of us said Katie, “Leigh Moore 

has come to their shows and expressed 

to Tracey how much she truly enjoys the 

groups work.” Rebus Works, located in 

Boylan Heights, brings a next generation

art movement to Raleigh. “Raleigh is 

conservative” said Katie, “ not that water 

colors is bad” she continued, “but it’s 

modern contemporary.” Unfortunately, 

the phrase “modern contemporary” 

forces me to think of other torturous 

conversations—like those of Polygon’s and 

isosceles triangles. I catch myself before 

the speaker becomes cognizant of my 

behavior. 

Both Tracey and Katie find tremendous 

influence from the professors at State; their 

support and critiques have been beneficial 

to the direction of their work and 

growth as artists. Tracey speaks of Claes 

Oldenburg’s art as a personal influence 

as well (true, you’re never short-changed 

by Claes with drawings like: Cup of Joe 

with donut, Figure Looking Through Legs 

and Baked Potato with Butter, they are 

as expressive 

as the titles 

he chooses to 

accompany 

them). Katie 

brings up 

Kiki Smith as 

someone she 

admires, and 

oddly adds that 

she finds herself 

less influenced 

by jewelers 

and more 

by painters. 

Interesting for 

someone who 

used frames in 

her last show 

to surround 

the jewelry 

and draw the 

comparison of 

how decorating 

our body is no 

different than 

decorating a 

canvas. 

Vuokko 

finally makes it. She hurries in; her hair 

is shorter than the wig she wore for 

her “Office Lady” piece, and a different 

shade of pink, actually, black. Although 

seemingly rushed and exhausted by her 

travels it felt as if she had it all under 

control and that this too was one of her 

performance pieces, “Late Interviewee.” 

I wanted to buy it. Vuokko’s works are a 

bit more provocative than some of the 

other artist’s, maybe because she rips at 

the heart of sexuality in her work. She 

declares triumphantly “I’m a third wave 

feminist.” Now, for those of you with 

penises, like myself, a third wave feminist 

is a woman who among many other 

things uses sexuality in her favor. The 

piece Tracey saw that got Vuokko on the 

HL Gallery radar was an installation titled 

“the buzz.” She needed to modify the 

original surroundings when she opened 

with HL in August. To put you into the 

piece close your eyes—no, wait if you do 

that you can’t read, and god I hope you’re 

not driving, because then we really have 

a problem, you’re reading while driving, 

and trying to close your eyes—but picture 

if you will a couch, a table and lamp set in 

the window of the Helig Levin building, 

on display you are, as various vibrating 

sounds pulsate through the seat cushions 

you are sitting on. What are you listening 

too? A multitude of vibrators. The sounds 

were recorded and edited together to 

provide a variety of buzzing, humming, 

pulsating orgasmic posturing. It confused 

many and even 

garnered a 

response from 

the mother of 

another artist 

who shows with 

HL when she 

quipped, “this is 

awesome…it’s 

so relaxing.” Yes, 

you go mom. 

Vuokko has 

another show 

coming up, also 

at Rebus Works 

in February. She 

hasn’t decided 

what she’ll be 

displaying, but 

whatever it is 

she hopes it 

won’t get her 

thrown in jail. 

HL Gallery 

won’t be 

showing again 

until sometime 

in the Spring, 

and although 

Tracey has a site she would prefer, she’s 

not speaking of it again, perhaps for 

superstitious reasons. So no site has been 

nailed down at this time. But keep your 

ears and eyes open as you would be 

remiss to miss out on seeing their next 

showcase, and because places like Rebus 

Works and April and George are lending 

wall, ceiling and floor space, you can still 

enjoy the search for them before the thaw. 

Find vuokko’s work at vuokkodesigns.com 

and information about upcoming shows for 

HL Gallery at myspace.com/hlgallery

Insomniatic Flotsam & Jetsam 

Warning: Safe For Work 

By Libby Lynn 

Existing in a constant state of busyness, 

I’ve decided, is similar to 

alcoholism or drug addiction in both 

its shielding powers and constant 

maintenance. It’s delightfully easy to 

ignore everything when your To Do list 

is as unrealistic as drinking until four AM 

on a Tuesday night. 

A few nights ago, some friends and 

I were drinking wine, talking about the 

porn industry and its current stages 

of busy-ness. In the middle of one of 

my standard wine-fueled analyzations, 

one of them said, “What happened to 

Party Libby? You used to be the life of 

the party.” People like me probably 

get that a lot: Aging, but still bipolar, 

and still twirling the last threads 

of irresponsibility. One reason why 

smoking is so hard to quit: Without it, all 

I have are the pills my shrink scribbles 

out for the mechanism in my skull. 

Years of cocktails and making out 

with men’s wives have sent me running 

to my office, ready to conquer whatever 

the porno world tosses up, with nothing 

more than an exempt college degree 

and the manic energy that those pills try 

to shape. There is very little porno left in 

my current job, though I’m surrounded 

on all sides by blow-up dolls with big, 

black equipment and balloon-like 

orifices, stacks of DVD screeners that 

feature the same cover girl for three or 

four months, until the next one comes 

along, lingerie hanging from the coat 

hook on my office door, and a random 

assortment of vibrators and lubricant. 

It’s sad, if you picture it in the right 

light. But the blow-up doll, whose name 

is Shaft, still gets uncomfortable glances 

and occasional ha-ha’s. 

Tonight, I came home and sat on 

my ass. Television is no form of true 

relaxation. It’s a trick. I know this. So 

I swallowed the half dose of xanax 

that should’ve also tricked my brain 

into sleep. But I’m reading a book 

called Paradise by A.L. Kennedy, which 

describes alcoholic living beautifully, 

and isn’t good for falling asleep to. 

And then there’s the woman we grew 

up across the street from, whose child 

died at the age of 14 fourteen years ago, 

and who recently shot her brains out. 

And the relative who was just diagnosed 

with Multiple Sclerosis, and the various 

family incidents and tragedies that 

every family seems to deal with, 

somehow, though I haven’t figured out 

how yet, and looming business trips, and 

all of the proposals I haven’t finished 

from the big Adult convention in Las 

Vegas, and financial worries, and the old 

getting old fears, and what I ought to be 

doing instead of watching television, 

the deadlines for non-work projects I’ve 

blown because, well, because I’m lazy, or 

incredibly busy, or both, and all of this 

sends me running to shout at that half 

tab of xanax long-digested in my gut: 

Why didn’t you work? 

It may seem that I’ve lost my sense of 

humor, along with my interest in writing 

stories about how stupid the American 

porn industry is, along with my belief 

that its bad reputation is based on 

American hypocrisy, along with my 

belief that it can, one day, be saved. 

I don’t think we want to be saved. I 

don’t think being saved would be good 

for sales. 

A few months ago, I got bored and 

went to a psychic. “For some reason, I see 

that your sacral chakra is blocked,” she 

said, “and although I don’t understand 

the connection, this is tied to the word 

corporation.” 

That was fucking funny.

The Way This One Guy Bill Brummel, 

Along With Every 8th Grade Girl Ever, Sees It 

By Kevin Hales 

Ilustration by David K. Rose 

know full well that hipsters pretend 

I they don’t go to Starbucks. I know, it’s 

the local independent shop or nothing for 

them. But as the Pointer Sisters¹ said, you 

know you’re a liar cause when we kiss, ooooh, 

fire. No, actually you know you’re a liar 

because I see your ass up in there. I mean, 

every single time I go to the Starbucks 

at the beginning of Battleground (in 

Greensboro) I see like the whole entire 

staff of Edward McKay books, local favorite 

with lots of used books and exclusively 

indie employees. 

And it’s funny as hell to see hipsters 

in Starbucks. They’re always sheepish 

about the whole thing, being caught 

contributing to such a corporate hellhole 

and all. You’re like, “Hey, Ian, what’s up?” 

and he’s like, “Uh, yeah, I just came here 

because my Aunt gave me a gift card for 

Christmas,” and you’re like, “Wow, that’s 

weird, because I just heard you order a 

double-tall extra-hot half-caf no-foam 

vanilla mocha latte, just like a regular 

would.” (OK, really they’re usually just nice 

and not really defensive at all—especially 

the ones from Edward McKay, they’re real 

nice folks.) 

And look, I’m all about supporting 

some local coffee shops. In Greensboro, I 

go to The Green Bean about twice a week 

and Tate Street Coffee fairly often. When 

I’m in Raleigh I usually hit up Third Place or 

Cup A Joe. But I’ll tell you, for near perfect 

predictability and convenience— you 

know what I’m going to say. I mean many 

indie places just haven’t quite yet nailed 

down getting the product itself right. And 

that’s kinda important, see? Anyway, Larry 

from Larry’s Beans, a guy who we all know 

gets the product right for damn sure, tells 

me that Starbucks over-roasts their beans. 

So there’s that. 

By the way, extra hot? Who gets this? 

I’m going to start that paragraph over, 

because it sounded too standup-y. 

By the way, extra hot? Who were the 

wizards who came up with that one? I 

don’t know if my mouth is more sensitive 

than the average mouth but it seems 

to me that the coffee’s right damn hot 

enough. 

OK, the real reason for this article: I 

went to Starbucks today and again got the 

cup that has “The Way I See It #61” on it. 

“The Way I See It” is this campaign where 

Starbucks prints folks’ platitudes on their 

cups (none of which necessarily reflect the 

opinion of Starbucks®, they’re careful to 

say). The most insipid—oh yeah, and not a 

little ironic—one yet has got to be this: 

“Imagine we are all the same. Imagine 

we agree about politics, religion and 

morality. Imagine we like the same 

types of music, art, food and coffee. 

Imagine we all look alike. Sound boring? 

Differences need not divide us. Embrace 

diversity. Dignity is everyone’s human 

right.”— Bill Brummel, Documentary 

filmmaker. His programs focus on 

human rights issues. 

Look at it. Go on, look at it! This is a 

quote deemed profound enough to go 

on a hundred-gajillion paper cups. Every 

single 8th grade girl ever has thought this, 

and probably put it in a poem. I bet the 

only differences between what millions 

of 8th grade girls the world over have 

written in their journals and Bill Brummel’s 

un-pithy remonstration above are the line 

breaks, capitalization and punctuation. To 

wit: 

“i love diversity and also dignity” 

by some pensive 8th grade girl 

imagine we are all the same 

imagine we agree about politics 

religion and morality 

imagine we like the same types of music 

art food and coffee 

imagine we all look alike 

sound boring? 

differences need not divide us 

embrace diversity 

dignity is everyones human right 

You feel me? I’m not arguing with the 

sentiment itself, mind you. I mean, sure, it 

would be a colossal bore if we were all the 

same. But I’m not seeing any profundity 

here. If this quote makes the grade for 

mass dissemination to millions of yuppies, 

cheesy businessmen, and abashed 

hipsters the world over, then can I get 

one too? What would I say? I don’t know, 

how about “This one time I was thinking 

and I realized how great it would be if we 

all would be real nice to each other.” Or 

“Things are good sometimes, but then 

again things are bad sometimes, and you 

know sometimes it’s somewhere kinda in 

the middle.” Or “I like delicious candies.” 

Also, this Bill Brummel fella, who is 

he? I can’t even find much about him on 

Google. “Documentary Filmmaker.” Turns 

out he had something on the History 

Channel once. So how’d he get quoted 

on a cup? Somebody needs to look into 

this. I mean, did he submit this quote, 

or did they just overhear him talking to 

some coed who was pretending she’d 

never thought of this, and so he was 

dumbing it down on purpose? I need to 

know, because it’s going to make a big 

difference as to how hard I’ll gnash my 

teeth next time I get a #61 cup. 

I’m rooting for the indie places. I 

hope they win in the end. And on that 

glorious day I hope the macroeconomists 

of the world can trace the end of global 

Starbucks as we know it to the very day 

somebody decided that this Brummel 

tripe was cup-worthy. 

¹ I know it was originally Bruce 

Springsteen. But here’s my thing: I don’t 

care. The one I know is by the Pointer 

Sisters, and it’s a fine version, and I don’t 

like Bruce Springsteen much anyway. 

Kevin Hales is from Greensboro, NC. He 

would like to be your one Republican friend. 

Get to know him at http://southpawgramm 

ar.blogspot.com. 

27

Demonic Russian 

Squirrel Pack 

Devourers Large 

Dog, Locals Fear 

Children Might Be 

Next 

An unknown number 

of “killer” squirrels 

have eviscerated a 

stray dog, which was 

barking at them in a 

Russian park, says a 

local media report. 

The attack was 

reported in parkland 

in the center of Lazo, 

a village in eastern 

Russia near the 

Chinese border, and 

was witnessed by 

at least three local 

people. Passers-by 

were too late to 

stop the attack by 

the black squirrels, 

which reportedly 

lasted about a minute. 

They are said to have 

scampered off at the 

sight of humans, some carrying pieces 

of flesh. 

“They literally gutted the dog,” said 

local journalist Anastasia Trubitsina. 

“When they saw the men, they scattered 

in different directions, taking pieces of 

their kill away with them.” 

Some people suggest that hunger is 

driving the squirrels to extremes, but 

the possibility of demonic possession 

should not be overlooked. 

A local man who called himself only 

“Mikhalich” said there had been “no 

pine cones at all” in the local forests 

this year. “The little beasts are agitated 

because they have nothing to eat,” he 

told reporters. “Things must be pretty 

bad in our forests.” 

Scientists are skeptical that a 

pinecone shortage may have led the 

ravenous squirrels to seek other food 

sources. Mikhail Tiyunov, a scientist 

in the region, said it was the first he 

had ever heard of such an attack. While 

squirrels without sources of protein 

might attack birds’ nests, he said, the 

idea of them chewing a dog to death 

was “absurd”. Did we mention demonic 

possession? 

Man Found Naked In Store Window 

With Mannequin Bearing No 

Resemblance To Kim Cattrall 

In a clear and powerful sign that life 

reflects art, or that American cultural 

imperialism spurs globalism, or at 

least that it takes a long time for 

Hollywood movies to make it to Turkey, 

or something else I don’t know what 

except that this is damn funny, a 30- 

year-old Turkish man was discovered by 

colleagues opening up the department 

store in Antalya for the day. They called 

28 

police after noticing 

bite marks on the 

that showed signs 

Apparently the shop 

assistant hid in the 

the store was being 

locked up for the 

No one knows 

yet how long this 

“ r e l a t i o n s h i p ” 

man and his three 

how long it will be 

before some one 

makes a porn movie 

out of it (though, 

has). The man has 

mannequin. Two 

other mannequins 

were discovered 

of “abuse” and 

were also taken 

in as evidence. 

bathroom while 

night. 

has been going 

on between the 

mannequins, or 

chances are, 

someone already 

been charged with damaging property. 

Man Sets Mouse On Fire, Mouse 

Sets Man’s House On Fire, Slapstick 

Hilarity Ensues 

Luciano Mares, 81, of Fort Sumner, 

NM tried to dispose of a mouse he 

discovered inside his house by tossing 

it onto a pile of burning leaves. In a 

final act of revenge, the burning mouse 

ran back into Mares’ house, setting it 

ablaze. 

“I had some leaves burning outside, 

so I threw it in the fire, and the mouse 

was on fire and ran back at the house,” 

Mares said from a motel room Saturday. 

No one was hurt inside, aside from the 

mouse of course, but the home and 

everything in it was destroyed. There is 

no word yet on whether this is covered 

under the “Act of God” clause in Mares’

insurance policy. “I’ve seen numerous 

house fires,” village Fire Department 

Capt. Jim Lyssy said, “but nothing as 

unique as this one.” 

Orlando Hotel Manager Books 

Teenage Soccer Team And Swingers’ 

New Year’s Party At Same Time, 

Mediocre Hilarity Ensues 

What do you get when you put teenage 

soccer players and their parents 

attending a Disney soccer showcase in 

a hotel with 200 swingers? Bad sitcom 

plots I’m pretty sure. Several soccer 

teams booked rooms at the Crowne 

Plaza Hotel-Airport in Orlando for 

Disney’s Soccer Showcase. They 

maintain that hotel management did 

not tell them about the swingers’ party 

or try to keep the partygoers away from 

the children. 

Paul Camporini and his wife, 

seventh-grade daughter and eighthgrade 

son from Safety Harbor, Fla., 

said he had to “delicately explain to my 

Catholic school children that swingers 

change partners during the evening.” 

But the damage to their fragile little 

minds may be irreparable. How long 

will it be before his wholesome children 

are Googling “swingers”? 

The families said the sexually openminded 

and adventurous partygoers 

sometimes flashed breasts and bare 

buttocks in front of the children as they 

sashayed through the hotel atrium. The 

parents described the dress at the Hotel 

as “raunchy, despicable and worse than 

prostitutes.” 

“My biggest gripe is that the hotel 

had two distinctly different groups 

under the same roof,” said Camporini, 

49. “A soccer team and middle-aged 

swingers should not have been booked 

together.” 

“We thought we were coming to 

Orlando, not the Las Vegas Strip,” said 

Mark Gilbert, the father of a boy who 

plays on the Clearwater Chargers, a 

group of 13-under players from Florida. 

“We’re not prudes by any means,” 

said Bob Smith of Greenville, N.C., 

who said his two daughters, aged 13 and 

11, asked questions about swingers that 

he answered a little too quickly for his 

wife’s comfort. “We would have liked to 

have been informed when we checked 

into the hotel so we could have made 

other arrangements.” He then gave the 

reporter a nudge-nudge-wink-wink-sayno-more. 

“The kids could see through 

the glass atrium into the ballroom 

where naked people were dancing. 

There were exposed breasts, thongs 

and see-through dresses on women who 

were not wearing any underwear.” Bob 

then covered his daughter’s ears and 

confided to this reporter that it was, 

“totally awesome.” 

Really, it could have been so much 

worse and we here at the Inane Observer 

are a little disappointed. 

Woman Left Paraplegic, Amputee, 

Sues Police for Using “Excessive 

Force” 

A woman from Michigan recently 

filed a lawsuit against police officers 

for utilizing “excessive force” during 

the course of her apprehension. After 

pursuing Carmen Mattera for many 

miles in a high-speed chase, some of 

which exceeded 110mph, the cops 

were apparently a little amped up, as 

is evident by the fact that they pumped 

some 30 or 40 rounds into her car when 

the chase had finally ended. This barrage 

of bullets left Mattera paralyzed from 

the waist down. In addition, one of her 

arms had to be amputated at the elbow. 

Excessive could be the word. 

Meanwhile, the police contend that 

Mattera was packing a .38-calaber 

handgun and had some 400 rounds 

of ammo in the car with her. And the 

arresting officers, all 20 or so of them, 

claim she fired first, a claim Mattera’s 

lawyer says is impossible. 

So what does Mattera have to say 

about how it all went down? She says 

that after her vehicle crashed, “I stayed 

in the vehicle and saw them draw their 

weapons. I got down in the seat of the 

car because they drew their weapons. 

They opened fire and I saw the bullets 

going in and out of the car. I was hit 

with quite a few of them. I brought out 

my pistol and I fired in the air and fired 

wide, not to hit anybody. I saw that it 

was doing no good, so I quit doing it. 

They brought out a shotgun and shot my 

arm off. That was it. It was over.” 

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If you have any questions you can reach us 

at richardmilhousenixon@hotmail.com

USELESS INFORMATION 

The Hatchet Trivia Quiz 

answers online at www.raleighhatchet.com 

1) True or False: The students of NC 

State University elected a pirate as 

Student Body President in 2005? 

6) The single day rock concert 

attendance record for the US (~ 

375,000 people) occurred during 

which festival? 

2) In Monty Python’s ‘Life of Brian’, 

how many different things did the 

assembled members of the PFJ list in 

response to Reg’s rhetorical question 

‘...and what have they [the Romans] 

ever given us in return’? 

A) 5 

B) 10 

C) 13 

D) 18 

3) Which of these countries is 

responsible for almost 1/3 of the 

world’s coffee production? 

A) Brazil 

B) Colombia 

C) Mexico 

D) Sumatra 

4) Around how much money do 

parking tickets generate for New York 

City every year? 

A) $375 million 

B) $500 million 

C) $22 million 

D) $100 million 

5) Conan O’Brian bears a striking 

resemblance to the female president 

of which of these countries? 

A) Sweden 

B) Denmark 

C) Finland 

D) Slovenia 

A) Woodstock (1969) 

B) Steve Wozniak’s US 

Festival (1983) 

C) Phish’s Clifford Ball 

Festival (1997) 

D) Woodstock II (1999) 

7) Which of these authors has made 

the most money over the course of 

their carrer? 

A) Steven King 

B) JK Rowlings 

C) JRR Tolkien 

D) Danielle Steel 

8) Which American president was 

assassinated by a self-proclaimed 

anarchist? 

A) Lincoln 

B) Garfield 

C) McKinley 

D) Kennedy 

9) The most valuable jazz instrument 

in the world (based on price paid at an 

auction) is: 

A) Louis Armstrong’s 

Trumpet 

B) Charlie Parker’s 

Saxophone 

C) Miles Davis’ Trumpet 

D) Duke Ellington’s Piano 

10) Which of these actors holds the 

record for most leading roles? 

A) Cary Grant 

B) Gary Cooper 

C) Bob Hope 

D) John Wayne

Libra (September 23 – October 23) 

Things will be quite confusing this month. 

You laugh at three eggs. Smelling a 

illustration by Daniel Lynch 

February 

Madam Mercury’s Monthly Horoscope 

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Valentine’s Day is the most romantic day 

of the year. Unfortunately for you another 

“VD” will be at the forefront of your… uh 

humm… mind. You may want to consider 

romancing the rash with a steamy bath 

and soft candlelight. 

Taurus (April 20 – May 20) 

It is a popular joke that the shortest month 

of the year is also Black History Month. 

But did you know that it’s also candy, 

chocolate, condom, dental, friendship, 

grapefruit, pet oral health care, sinus pain 

awareness, and potato lovers’ month? 

Didn’t think so. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 21) 

This month you will reinvent yourself 

using aluminum foil, safety scissors, glitter, 

and a glue stick. 

Cancer (June 22 – July 22) 

You have a mysterious hallucination after 

drinking the agave worm at the bottom of 

the mezcal. Naw, I’m joking, those things 

don’t make you hallucinate. It’s the acid 

you dropped when you were 16 coming 

back to haunt you. 

Leo (July 23 – August 22) 

Your stash of Nag Champa incense is 

running low. It may be time to stroll down 

to your local Buddha’s Belly and pick up 

a box. You will also need a detox drink. 

I smell a piss test in your future, and it 

smells funny. 

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

Spectators agree that your impression of a 

person seizing is very believable. 

decorative mirror gives you a stubbed toe. 

Please refrain from feeding the animals. 

Embark on a lava lamp this future. 

Scorpio (October 24 – November 21) 

It is time to go on a vacation. You should 

pack one bag and buy an extra ticket. 

Meet me at the airport. Make sure I am 

riding first class… you can ride coach if 

you need to save some money. 

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21) 

People ask me if I read the stars when I’m 

stoned. Except you Sagittarius—you never 

ask. Never. 

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19) 

Your gullibility gets you into trouble when 

you fall into a jack-o-lope’s lair. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18) 

You’re going to get your ass kicked at your 

ten-year high school reunion when you 

confront the bullies from your past. You 

are still a little wiener. 

Pisces (February 19 – March 20) 

It is about time to retire that white belt 

and black hair dye. It’s been four years 

and you still haven’t been laid. Maybe you 

should try getting a job and moving out of 

mom’s basement.

Feb. - The Raleigh Hatchet, a monthly music, art and humor magazine.

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