I’m in one of those frenzies where I get so overcome by a photo (or, in this case, eleventy-seven-hundred photos) that I want to throw away everything I own that doesn’t feel like some iteration of the look.

I’m rarely interested in couture or runway anymore, but this is pretty much everything—minus a pair of cut-off shorts and some concert tees, but I think they could slide in.

Unfriggingbelievable.

via Style.com:

The pared-to-the-bone rock-chick look—with its legging-slender pants and tiny sequined jackets—was one facet. The other, deeper reference was the city’s plangent, occult pull. The women on Slimane’s catwalk today looked like the witchy covens who’d surround rock groups in the sixties/seventies heyday of the Strip. Or maybe even earlier, when the artist Cameron seduced the stalwarts of the Ferus Gallery.

[Far left... far left!]

[All of the above.]

Get your broomsticks out!

-C.

[Maeve stained glass skirt from Anthro + vintage Army t-shirt from VintageTrends.com + Club Monaco hoops (ShopBop) + Motif 99 cuff (ShopBop) + Vanessa Mooney rings and bracelets.]

I have started and stopped writing this post so many times over the last 3 months. I’ve written the lines in my head in the shower in the morning, sudsing and smiling, ready to cheerfully take on the day at any one of my 4 (5?) part-time gigs—then erased those sentiments hours later while hunched over a register or a sink full of dishes, reconsidering my thoughts on the (in)decency of humankind and my choices to be put at their mercy.

That’s the thing about making broad, sweeping statements: they tend to not always apply. Especially when the fulcrum is people.

Originally titled “Things I’ve learned working menial jobs again,” the post was meant to take the focus off of something I’ve identified in you guys over the years: a shared worry about success and relevance and pressure and fulfillment wrapped up in employment that you feel good (smug) about conveying while shaking someone’s hand for the first time and answering the question: “What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.” —Boom.

“I’m a doctor.”—Boom.

“I’m a Senior Copywriter.”—Boom.

Forget that. The post was meant to explain, in my words, how working two of the most thankless jobs—waitressing and retail, in conjunction with a slew of other, equally demanding freelance jobs—has given me more rewarding days, financial happiness, and overall satisfaction than I could ever glean alone from ‘real’ jobs.

This revelation that I could be happy giving up my enormous ego (“doctor. lawyer. ad agency monkey.”) to work two jobs I’m sometimes frankly embarrassed to be seen at by counterparts was strange. ["Oh...uh, you work here?"---this question has even more insouciant lilt when there's a packed stroller in front of its asker.] But it was a relief, too, and it coincided with a general fading of my being once completely (unconditionally, really) fascinated by anyone with a ‘typical’ variety of success. (“doctor. lawyer. $300K salary. trust fund.”—yawn.) My god are there a lot more interesting people out there who don’t fall into those brackets. Who knew? And the more of them I met, the less interested I got in blindly giving credit to people with titles and money, and so on, until I found that I was far more inspired by and interested in people who deliberately fell outside of those categories. Is this making sense yet?

I don’t automatically assume I’m going to be totally impressed by someone because of what they do anymore—and it set me free.

But above all that, the post was going to be my way of urging you to do what you need to do to be happy. Even if it’s only one day a week. Rebel for your sake. Because there is such a thing as a job that pays, and pays you back.

These “things I’ve learned working menial jobs again” could not have vacillated more, however, and the tone of the post changed like the tides as my bitterness toward those ‘menial’ jobs ebbed and flowed against the bulwark of my determination to just be happy.

That’s a really wordy way of saying you have good days, and you have bad days. Some people are cool; most people are assholes. And it was then that I realized these jobs mirrored life in a way I’d been removed from and indifferent to for years. Offices and Facebook and commutes are not real life; people and the relationships and kindness and patience and humility that happen outside of and despite jobs, however, are. I wanted to see if I could make it while cutting out the office and the commute. I’m working on the Facebook bit.

I read this Italian proverb recently and thought, “Yes. This is how I will approach the bad days. This is how happy will outweigh defeat.”

A good anvil does not fear the hammer.

I’m an anvil. We’re all anvils.

So, the things I’ve learned:

I’m actually supremely happy, in general.

Most days, I’m this ball of sunshine and sarcasm. I never realized that. As someone with a tangible history of depression and anxiety, I figured I was doomed to a life of excess self-awareness and dissidence, punctuated with fun moments. I was wrong! I didn’t realize I have a generally positive outlook on almost everything except jerks and wrinkles and broken automobiles and taxes. I feed directly off everyone around me, especially when my focus is on them—not my own irrelevant success or failures.

There’s a joy in service. It fills me up.

No matter how much money I’m making, I hope I can always maintain a night a week waiting tables or pouring wine. It’s like dunking my head in ice water, and I always need it.

Most nights, I’m on my game. Even after a full 9.5 hours at home working my freelance jobs. I go in, and I’m happy to be there. When there’s down time, I’m clutching my gut laughing with coworkers, singing along to David Bowie in the kitchen, sneaking truffle-infused salami, or lending a hand to the chef to make his life a little easier. I float around from task to task, spreading the love and feeling this deep satisfaction that every penny I earn within those four walls I have seriously, legitimately earned the shit out of. And I always sleep like a rock.

There’s truly something to be said for being continually thrust into situations where you have to be “on”—it’s like working out for your soul. We humans feel really evolved when we can maintain a life full of comfortable moments. And I guess we assume that by a certain age and income bracket, we’ve earned the right to be complacent. Hey, you put in your years, you get up and you work hard, it’s not unheard of to feel like you’ve earned the right to sometimes take things out on other people and be lousy at the things you’re not required (paid) to do.

I challenge that. Life’s too short.

It’s also too easy to be a complacent asshole—to gamble on a long-lost first impression that permits you to be less than gracious, to let negativity constantly fall from your lips, to take for granted a smile or extra bit of sincerity. Thanks to serving, my antennae are tuned in to how people make me feel, and how I make them feel. For the last two years, I’ve felt like a lightning rod for good vibes.

I’m not saying quit your job and be a waitress. But I’ve managed to strike a delightful balance that’s fulfilling (for now), and I couldn’t have, had I not taken a risk: choosing to forgo one steady, lucrative job for several, less steady jobs at 32 was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but it got me on the ball—and with no time to spare.*

*That post is next.

With just enough free time to go after what I want, I have no choice but to make it happen, right? Seriously, guys—you’ve got one go at this. What are you waiting for?

Anxiety is a product of something I can control.

Not all office jobs are created equal, but for me, they all tended to illicit the same sad version of me: quivering in fear of the next failure and resulting consequence.

Working on the side as both a waitress and in retail, outside of the familiar patterns of manager-managee passive aggression, taught me that I have almost complete control over my anxiety. In menial jobs, everything is concrete. You’re the conduit for good or bad, plain and simple.

My first round of copy may be wonderful, or make someone contemplate firing me, but if someone asking me to describe wines on the by the glass list makes me feel stupid or caught off guard, there’s a simple solution: learn the wines. Taste them. Find my favorite, and convey that passion to a captive, thirsty audience. If answering the phone at the store awakens my intense, irrational PTSD fear of getting fired, I’m the first to lift that ringing bastard off the cradle every day until I’ve retrained my brain.

When a job rides almost completely on your ability to rise above everything and smile for the sake of giving someone else a really fun, unforgettable experience—man, when I’m not hungover, I’m a rockstar. I can beam at a customer until they need a welding helmet. I can chirp over a steaming hot rack of unpolished wine glasses like I’ve got a cantering unicorn between my thighs.

I can even enthusiastically converse with a table where women my age sit, relaxing in seats where I wish I was sitting, drinking the wine I would like to be drinking, wearing heels I wish I could be wearing, eating the cheese I would kill to be eating, who are almost certainly automatically making [incorrect, but that's ok] assumptions about me because I am their waitress, and be 100% ok with it—because they’re having a damned good time, and that’s largely contingent on me.

But I linger on that last sentence in moments of weakness.

The reason I kept changing my mind about what to write and where it was coming from.

People are assholes.

The service industry can be a brutal, demoralizing place to call home. And I regularly question what in the hell is wrong with people.

Especially women. You’d think they bottle up all their pungent vitriol to take out on people in stores or restaurants. And considering they’re doing something really awesome, like buying themselves $78 t-shirts or drinking an unreal glass of Oregon Pinot Gris, one really has to wonder what brand of horned demon they have camped out in their buttholes.

I almost killed a woman with my bare hands the other day. I’ve often resisted the urge to ask, “Really? What part of my face leads you to believe I give two terrible shits?” I’ve been pushed to the very limits of sanity by people hell-bent on taking their misery out on the rest of the world. I’ve asked simple, routine questions it’s my job to ask and been met with boiling, acidic responses laced with insult. The number of humiliating, completely unnecessary comments that have been blithely leveled at me… you can see why drafting an ode to the joys of standing on my feet for 5 hours like a street performer might have made its way into the trashcan.

There are far better forums than here to discuss these true gems of mankind, so I’ll just leave it at that.

I get tested. Hard. And sometimes, it’s with a lot of regret that these people make me want to walk away from a job I could normally get such satisfaction from.

But it’s the strength I gain from tolerating these trolls, and still finding that I know how to smile, that keeps me coming back.

There are different types of satisfaction. I want all the satisfactions.

I landed the retail gig first, when I wasn’t able to help Rob with my half of the bills via writing alone. [Praise Jeebus, that changed!] I hated it at first. I would audibly wimper while pulling my jeans on—there were literally so many moving parts to learn and get a hang of. But I did notice one thing, and it changed my life: walking out of that place after a grueling shift with aching feet was a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction I wasn’t getting anywhere else. It was a different brand of stress—totally different things to handle and overcome and succeed at. I loved getting to funnel my energy there, and tally up wins that had nothing to do with my other jobs.

I grew stronger than I’ve ever been.

Conversely, delivering a presentation or a first draft that just sank the birdie felt better than ever, too, because it wasn’t all I had. I took the power away from everyone else. For once, everything was up to me.

I know the value of a dollar.

Take shit from people for 5 hours at a time and I guarantee you you’re less likely to blow the money you just earned on something stupid. You value that money more, because you value yourself more.

At my retail gig, I take a sick pleasure in leaving all my credit cards at home when I go in for a shift. At the end of the day, I don’t need that stuff, and I don’t want to need the job, either. I want it to need me. And walk out feeling “tired, but wiser for the time.”

There’s something about knowing your hourly pay rate that’s empowering, rather than having a cushy salary. I know roughly how many hours each purchase is, and I’m far less likely to sacrifice a day (be it a good one, or one FULL OF HATE) for a sweater. Now salaries are awesome—I’ve been giving salary jobs the free seat in first class since I graduated college—but forcing myself out of that comfort zone wizened me up.

I started a cash jar in our house—something I haven’t done, like, ever. Who knew! Carey can squirrel away cash with the best of ‘em. I can usually measure how tired I am by how full the jar is. It’s visible proof I’m doing everything physically possible to make our lives great. I’m proud to say my little shifts here and there have paid for a huge number of projects in OOFH, from garden improvements and rugs to tile and fancy bathroom fixtures.

There’s a simplicity to spending this way that is more satisfying than anything I ever bought when I had fat, steady paychecks in the old days.

And when we food & bev people do feel like blowing some cash, we do it right: cheap beers in cool places with fascinating people. Oh, and we’re the best tippers on earth.

But the most important thing? That I don’t think any number of promotions or raises or fancy titles could have ever taught me?

I am the anvil.

And I’m a good anvil.

I can handle it. No matter what it is. I’m learning I can handle things, and I’m more proud of myself than ever. What I tell someone, when they ask me “What do you do?” will never be as satisfying as clocking out from one of my “menial” jobs.

You’re a good anvil, too. You were born that way. Specifically engineered to handle exactly what your life is going to throw at you.

Just figure out how to realize that—dive into it—and you’ll never fear the hammer.

-C.

It’s gonna be a hell of a night!

We sat down today, tasted through a bunch of Bonny Doon wines, found our lineup and brought them to the chef. We re-tasted, hashed out flavors and combinations, and Chef Sam did what he does best. The pairings will be sensational, and if you live in or around Richmond, you don’t want to miss this.

-Rob.

Real, high-quality Chablis is a balm to the soul…unadorned, unbejewelled, in a white wine world where alcohol and oak are too much ascendant…Chablis prides itself on minerality. This wine demonstrates what the word means.

-Oz Clark on the 2011 Domaine VD Premier Cru ‘Côte de Léchet

Man, I love that quote.

And more so, in a simple wine review, it sums up just what I love about Chablis.

Chablis is just a small spot on the world wine map. There’s only one grape of significance grown there, and the best ones—regardless of the producer—could similarly be described by that quote. It’s that simplicity (and I’m not talking about the wine) that’s so appealing.

While Oz Clark is specifically referring to the big brother of Dampt’s AOC “base” Chablis, the words get right to the heart of why we love these wines: Chablis [Chardonnay from the northern-most district of Burgundy]—in its best form—does something so simple.

It demonstrates purity.

Being the coolest growing region in Burgundy, Chablis trades excess ripeness and rich fruit for prominent, steely, and flinty minerality with crisp acidity. In a complex kind of way, it’s as simple as that.

Summer is almost here, and if you haven’t spent much time exploring this region, now is the time. It will change the way you look at Chardonnay.

But remember: the key is where you’re buying it from. Find a wine store you can trust.

-Rob.

Importer/distributor Michael Skurnik on Vincent Dampt:

The Dampt family has a long tradition of winemakers, in fact both Vincent’s father, Daniel Dampt, and grandfather, Jean Defaix, own highly-regarded estates in Chablis. Vincent grew up in the world of wine and decided to follow the family tradition when he was just 14 by enrolling himself in wine school in Beaune.

In 2002 Vincent began working with his father as winemaker, and in 2004 inherited a few small plots of vineyards, enabling him to create his own estate and make wines under his own name.  Dampt’s approach is sustainable. The vines are 35 years old and yields are kept very low; both factors are held to bring great complexity to the wines.

Fermentation is in stainless steel tanks.  Malolactic fermentation is carried out in order to soften the wines’ naturally high acidity.

It’s an exciting time for wine in the New World.

I’m not going say a revolution is in the works, but we are seeing some encouraging signs. Enough winemakers are willing to make wines a little differently and enough people are willing to buy those wines—and that’s all it takes.

A new generation of winemakers who aren’t scared to loosen their grip, hold back, and let vintage and vineyard get a toe hold are getting noticed by more than just a handful of hopeful wine geeks. Chasing a stylized conclusion is what has pushed absurd wines—amidst a salvo of accolades—to become the norm. Hopefully, that ship has sailed.

We recently picked up the Folk Machine and Ghostwriter wines for the store, both made under the Hobo Wine Company umbrella. Made by winemaker Kenny Likitprakong, everything from the lineup has been impressive.

His Valdiguie, an easy-drinking, light-bodied red made from grapes similar in style to Gamay Noir, disappeared as fast as it arrived; we sailed through what little of the 2011 Central Coast Pinot Noir we managed to get our hands on. His Pinot Noir managed sub-13% abv and bright acidity while showing easy ripeness and not a hint of off-putting green, under-ripe tannins–a wine that single-handedly makes you shake your head at the unnecessarily over-ripe wines define the norm. Stay tuned for the 2012 Folk Machine Tocai Friulano—it just arrived last week, and is a total gem.

Three Ceremonies is a unique Carignan-based Rhône blend that infuses generous spice and earth with red fruit and perfect rustic, slightly grainy tannins that makes the wine so… real. Nothing about this wine’s body, intensity or alcohol strays past the medium mark and for about $23, it’s a total steal.

-Rob.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/07/wine-review-2011-%c2%b7-folk-machine-%c2%b7-three-ceremonies-%c2%b7-mendocino-ca/feed/ 0 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/07/happy-day-of-birth-roberto/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/07/happy-day-of-birth-roberto/#comments Mon, 08 Apr 2013 02:39:11 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18954

[Daughters of the Liberation jacket + Moyna sequined vest + AG legging jeans + Sam Edelman boots + Sam & Lavi blouse + Anthro feather necklace + Dannijo bag. Most important is the beer: the beer is Saison DuPont. Write that down.]

Took my number one dude down to the river for a pre-birthday dinner Saison and some red-knuckle hang time before the sun went down. Told him to dress warm and stop asking questions.

Now turn around so we can see that babyface:

And this totally unintentional mace face:

This was all very Karen inspired. Sequined vests are the new everything.

I have so much to share. So much news! But first I have to go have an intimate evening with Chris Robinson in DC tomorrow night. Follow me on Instagram @wodehizzle for all the dirty, beardy details.

Happy sprizzing, hombres.

-C.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/07/happy-day-of-birth-roberto/feed/ 2 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/06/wine-review-alain-roy-%c2%b7-2009-%c2%b7-givry-en-vauvry-%c2%b7-burgundy-france/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/04/06/wine-review-alain-roy-%c2%b7-2009-%c2%b7-givry-en-vauvry-%c2%b7-burgundy-france/#comments Sun, 07 Apr 2013 03:23:40 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18940

Burgundy is complicated: the wine, the geography, the influence of vintage.

Thankfully, there are some basic guidelines to follow. Burgundy is divided into a north, and a south; Pinot Noir is the heartbeat of the reds, Chardonnay of the whites. The most sought-after Pinot Noir is considered to be a product of  the north, or the Côte de Nuits; Chardonnay, the south, or the Côte de Beaune.

But even that is just a generalization. It’s often the outlying regions, those that foster less attention, that make up the bulk of the everyday wines that we find so charming and affordable.

Chablis, for example, which is north of the Côte de Nuits, brings us some of the finest mineral-driven Chardonnays that routinely outpace their standing in the marketplace; or Beaujolais, far to the south, gives us great examples Gamay Noir that can thrill any wine geek with a sea of options for under $30. 

Givry is a small village in the Côte Chalonnaise, a region south of the Côte de Beaune, and another example of one of the many lesser-known regions of Burgundy. Givry wines are mostly red, from the Pinot Noir grape, and the best examples blend elegance with an inherently more power-driven style, for a reasonable price.

The 2009 Alain Roy Givry is straight-forward and approachable, undeniably ripe and pleasant, but nicely acidic with a slightly rustic note and balanced alcohol and tannin. We’ve enjoyed this wine so many times without breaking the bank—it’s one of our favorites. There is nothing overly austere or complicated here—comfort wine… a graceful underdog. A comfortable show of solid Pinot Noir fruit with not a hint of toast or fluff. And it’s not a wildly mineral-driven wine, just a faithful friend for under 30 bucks.

Give it a try, you won’t be disappointed. And if you’re like us, you’ll always wish there was just another glass’ worth.

-Rob.

[Fringe + a sleek cuff and a snake ring. Sho 'nuff.]

I’ve revisited my post about Karen from Californication’s style numerous times over the years, and figured it was time to issue a solid follow-up. Expect to see some mimicry of these looks to follow; my copycatting does not limit itself to skinny frontmen.

There’s a relaxed, rock edge to all these looks I can’t help but gravitate towards: leather jackets, no-nonsense denim, masculine/feminine mixes, and super shaggy hair. And looking back, I think this choice definitely makes sense for the women of this series: tough broads who take a lot of s**t (and risks)… and have a serious handle on their own sex appeal.

So, really, who can blame Hank?

[A loose kimono robe worn as a jacket: essential. I done did that here.]

[Army jacket and jeans. We're soul mates.]

[Leather + lace. Because there's nothing a weighty brown belt can't romance.]

[Rumpled linen and a scarf: menswear magic.]

[WHAT. A goat's fur vest and leather shorts. Classic. Are you with the band? I am. I am with the band.]

[A sequined vest as essential layering.]

All photos courtesy Californication’s Facebook page.

Let the games begin!

-Carey

[Current/Elliott jeans + HTC belt + Truly Madly Deeply tank + Free People kimono + Vanessa Mooney jams.]

The other day Rob and I were pouring beers in the kitchen, watching a series of vids from the new KOL documentary, Talihina Sky. Rob—who plays guitar and sings better than he’ll ever give himself credit for—loves to understand exactly how a song was written: the nuts and bolts, how every part came together, the phrase someone uttered that inspired the lyrics, the bass line, defining licks, the recording process, how each guitar part was written for another guitar part that was itself the seedling for the tune… the whole story told by musicians for musicians.

While Rob plays a song out on a 6-string, I play it out in my imagination. I ride the wave, just in a different way. I cling to visuals I associate with certain lyrics; I focus on the way it makes me feel. I love the inspiration behind a song, but if I start to learn too much about it, my own imaginary story I’ve built up for it gets lost. And like Santa Claus, man, you can’t get that back.

In some cases, this answers a mystery. In others, it destroys the mystery.

In certain instances, it gives you this glimpse into an artist that makes you feel a little more connected. Connected in a realistic way, I guess, since Caleb Followill’s never going to be singing a tune while longing for me, with a bloody lip. A girl can dream.

Fear not. In some cases, the reality is even frigging cooler than the scope of the song—cool as hell. Especially in the case of “Carey,” an anthem of mine (obviously), by Joni Mitchell.

Dig it, kids:

This song was written during Joni Mitchell’s time in the caves of the island of Matala, Crete, in March through June of 1969. It was a popular retreat for 1960s hippies, who went there seeking enlightenment and wound up sleeping in the old Roman burial crypts.

Carey was a real person whom Joni met in Matala. He had flaming red hair and often wore a turban. They met, says Mitchell, when Carey “blew out of a restaurant in Greece, literally. Kaboom! I heard, facing the sunset. I turned around and this guy is blowing out the door of this restaurant. He was a cook; he lit a gas stove and it exploded. Burned all the red hair off himself right through his white Indian turban. I went, ‘That was an interesting entrance—I’ll take note of that.’”

The following is a transcript of the introduction to this song that Mitchell gave during a performance at the Troubador:

“I went to Greece a couple years ago and over there I met a very unforgettable character. I have a hard time remembering people’s names, like, so I have to remember things by association, even unforgettable characters I have to remember by association, so his name was ‘Carrot’ Raditz, Carey Raditz, and oh, he’s a great character. He’s got sort of a flaming red personality, and flaming red hair and a flaming red appetite for red wine and he fancied himself to be a gourmet cook, you know, if he could be a gourmet cook in a cave in Matala. And he announced to my girlfriend and I the day that we met him that he was the best cook in the area and he actually was working at the time I met him—he was working at this place called the Delphini restaurant—until it exploded, singed half of the hair off of his beard and his legs, and scorched his turban, melted down his golden earrings.

“Anyway, one day he decided he was going to cook up a feast, you know, so we had to go to market because, like, in the village of Matala there was one woman who kind of had a monopoly – well actually there were three grocery stores, but she really had a monopoly, and because of her success and her affluence, she had the only cold storage in the village, too. So she had all the fresh vegetables and all the cold soft drinks and she could make the yogurt last a lot longer than anyone else, and we didn’t feel like giving her any business that day. Rather than giving her our business we decided to walk ten miles to the nearest market.

“So I had ruined the pair of boots that I’d brought with me from the city, because they were really ‘citified,’ kind of slick city boots that were meant to walk on flat surfaces. The first night there we drank some Raki and I tried to climb the mountain and that was the end of those shoes. So he lent me these boots of his which were like Li’l Abner boots—like those big lace-up walking boots— and a pair of Afghani socks, which made my feet all purple at the end of the day. And I laced them up around my ankles and I couldn’t touch—the only place my foot touched was on the bottom, you know, there was nothing rubbing in the back or the sides—they were huge—and he wasn’t very tall, either, come to think of it, was kind of strange—I guess he had sort of webbed feet or something.

“But we started off on this long trek to the village, I forget the name of it now, between Matala and Iraklion—and started off in the cool of the morning. And by the time we got halfway there we were just sweltering, me in these thick Afghani socks and heavy woolens and everything. So we went into the ruins of King Phestos’ palace to sit down and have a little bit of a rest, and while we were there these two tourist buses pulled up and everybody got off the buses in kind of an unusual symmetry, you know, they all sort of walked alike and talked alike and they all kind of looked alike. And they all filed over to a series of rubbley rocks—a wall that was beginning to crumble—lined themselves up in a row and took out their viewing glasses, overgrown opera glasses, and they started looking at the sky. And suddenly this little speck appeared on the horizon that came closer and closer, this little black speck.

“Carey was standing behind all of this leaning on his cane, and as it came into view he suddenly broke the silence of this big crowd and he yells out, ‘it’s ah MAAGPIE’ in his best North Carolina drawl. And suddenly all the glasses went down in symmetry and everybody’s heads turned around to reveal that they were all very birdlike looking people. They had long skinny noses, really—they had been watching birds so long that they looked like them, you know—and this one woman turned around and she says to him (in British accent) “it’s NOT a magpie—it’s a crooked crow.” Then she very slowly and distinctly turned her head back, picked up her glasses, and so did everybody else, and we kept on walking. Bought two kilos of fish which would have rotted in the cave hadn’t it been for the cats.

“When we got back from that walk, Stelios, who was the guy who ran the Mermaid Cafe, had decided to put an addition on his kitchen, which turned out to be really illegal and it was so illegal, as a matter of fact, that the Junta dragged him off to jail. And torture was legal over there—they burnt his hands and his feet with cigarette butts mainly because they hated, you know, all of the Canadians and Americans and wandering Germans living in the caves, but they couldn’t get them out of there because it was controlled by the same archaeologist that controlled the ruins of King Phestos’ palace, and he didn’t mind you living there as long as you didn’t Day-Glo all of the caves. And everyone was, like, putting all of their psychedelia over all this ancient writing. So they carted him off to jail…”

The Mermaid Cafe in Matala was a popular place in the late ’60s, boasting a battery-operated radio and bare-wire lightbulbs strung through the tree branches for lighting. The owner of the Mermaid, Stelios Xagorarakis, was arrested during the hippie occupation of Matala for some dubious illegal non-menu items that he allegedly cooked at his restaurant. According to Stelios himself, he was held for 3 days and not only survived, but thrived, now the owner of 7 health food stores in the Southern California region where he lives.

And now you know.

Fly me to Crete, kids.

-Carey. The other Carey.

First post from my iPhone!

Last week at Barrel Thief we launched our first annual Pinot Noir tasting. Prior to the Pinot tasting our yearly lineup included a Spring Rosé tasting, a holiday sparkling wine/Champagne blowout, and a no-Nouveau Beaujolais experience. After little debate, Pinot noir was added to the mix and 10 wines from around the world were assembled—it went down as our most successful event ever.

Bottle prices ranged from $14 to $60, and one of my favorites was this classic but slightly off-beat and earthy sub-$20 Pinot from Alto Adige, Italy.

Fermented in stainless steel and raised in large wooden barrels, this wine shows a perfect mix of red Pinot fruit, rustic spice and earth, and a touch of interesting funk. It’s distinctly Italian and worth looking for.

-Rob

[Sam and Lavi neon button-up + Current/Elliott elephant bells + Vanessa Mooney turquoise & wood bead necklace.]

The best neon.

Most popular.

Best couple (with turquoise).

The best drape.

Renaissance woman.

I’m breaking radio silence—from I-95! We’re on our way back from a pal’s wedding in FL, with Eli in tow. Things have been busy as bag of spilled Doritos in an ant farm, you guys—both with awesome work challenges, and ongoing efforts around the pad.

Speaking of, check out our house tumblr—Our Own Fan House—it gets a fair amount more love than C+C these days. [A natural symptom. It also gets more financial attention. Which puts the hurt on acquisition of blog-worthy subjects, like rock tees and Rioja.]

The kind of cool thing about this shirt is that my mom and dad have essentially been sporting versions of this since as long as I can remember: soft, faded fishing shirts in awesome bleached-out aquas and greens, with buttoned flaps and pockets and ventilated armpits—uniforms for long days fishing in the Florida Keys when I was growing up, purchased at outdoor outfitter shops.

Every time I put this on, I think of my mom, effortless and indelibly foxy, in her one-piece bathing suit and a fishing shirt tied up around her waist, standing up on the bow of the boat with her rod in hand, all long tan legs, Ray-Ban aviators, and a Heineken between her feet.

So I got it in every color.

What can I say; I’m a sentimental old fool.

-Carey

[My first The Shirt by Rochelle Behrens. I get the deal now.]

There are a lot of questions you have to ask yourself concerning the issue of gainful employment. Lots of stress. For some of us, there’s some soul searching, too.

“I feel like… when I was out there, I had my shit figured out, you know? And now that I’m back, it’s like: ‘Can I get a job?’ you know, ‘Should I hit this party?’… ‘Can I afford DirectTV?’” – How to Make it in America

But, you know, one of these questions should not have to be “What in the Sam Hill do I wear?” And if you’re like me and have managed to dodge an office scenario for the last few years, thus replacing anything tailored or presentable with Humble Pie t-shirts purchased from dudes named Larry who, in their e-mail shipment confirmations say, “Carey, Carey, Carey… it’s outta here!”—this is a legitimate question.

And if you are busty—the #1 natural enemy of chic—button-up shirts have the same level of draw as, say, sweating ants.

Wait, wait, wait.

Dudes—I concede. [And no, no plans to be back in an office, that I know of.] While this is clearly borne of a place of continued professional ambivalence, I got you on the old bait-and-switch, cause see, we’re talking about clothes. Just for a minute.

In a weird twist, a friend who did PR for this brand asked me to wear/write about a shirt The Shirt a number of years ago, but I missed the boat. At that point, I think they only stocked white cotton? In any event, I was not in the market for anything other than cut-offs, and also completely naive to the presence of the tiny secret ninja buttons. (More on those later.) Fast-forward to an event at Ledbury in RVA featuring both an old friend/local artist, Lindsey Cowles, and a The Shirt trunkshow, and there I was fondling stunning muted pastel silk, sort of vaguely aware the name sounded familiar. Out of ye ole freelance price range, sadly.

 [... party on the bottom. Cause who am I to leave the house without some manner of fringe.]

[Guess whose bra you can't see? Someone give me something to make copies of, quick!]

Let’s check out these sneak attack buttons and wrap this up:

They live behind the placket, see? Amazing. And the prints (especially the silk with the leather-trimmed pocket) make these pretty frigging effortlessly cool. Did I just almost make a glossy subhead? Day to night? Work to play? Whatever; it’s true, and I’m a grunge-loving snob. So there.

Check them all out here. And Shirt ladies, bring back Le Petit Jet print! I beg.

-C.

From my favorite wine store I’ve never been to, 3 Cups, in Chapel Hill North Carolina:

Sainte Croix du Mont is a lesser-known appellation of eastern Bordeaux. The region exists literally across the river from (but figuratively in the shadow of) Sauternes, the most well-known and probably greatest of French dessert wine producing regions. On this side of the Garonne, Chateau la Rame make probably the best, and certainly the best-value, dry red and white wine.

The prevailing style in Bordeaux for a number of years has been to bottle super-concentrated, ripe and lavishly oaky red (and occasionally white) wines. To me the wines of Chateau La Rame stick closer to an older template of subtle, medium-weight, food-friendly wines. Age-worthy perhaps, but more importantly great in the meantime, in particular with traditional French country cooking.

The Barrel Thief was excited to snag the remaining 15 bottles of the La Charmille 2008 vintage last week, a close-out before the 2009′s roll into our market. I worked with this wine quite a bit last year, proud to sell it as an exceptional, moderately-priced, Merlot-based Bordeaux that gracefully balances approachable fruit with classic style. Neither overly austere or crippled by extraction or oak, La Rame wines always have a way of getting me excited about drinking Bordeaux any night of the week. Sensible fruit, integrated tannins, earth, herb, and a good finish—it’s all there.

I opened with a quote from the 3 Cups website for a reason.

Even though I’ve never visited their store, I’ve always felt our stores were kindred spirits. Our inventories constantly overlapped. Just like our own store, I knew that 3 Cups was one of the few retail filters that managed to weed through a sea of mediocre wine and hone in on the precious few that were relevant, honest, natural and proper every time—and make no exceptions.

Francois Gaunoux from Burgundy, Clisson from the Loire Valley, Eric Texier from the Rhone, Guy Larmandier from Champagne, Nigl from Austria, G.D. Vajra from Piedmont, Edmonds St. John from California, Paolo Bea from Umbria, Peciña from Rioja, Illahe from Oregon… and on and on it went.

Sadly, I learned today that 3 Cups was closing. Another outlet for real, hard to acquire wine: gone. I knew La Rame wines always had a place on their shelves, so I knew what was coming home with me tonight.

A salute.

On a final note?

Get to know a local wine shop and make the extra stop on your way home. These gems will never find their way into a grocery store or Costco.

-Rob.

And it almost didn’t happen.

As of Thursday, Barrel Thief added a pretty special bottle of wine to the inventory, a 2005 Coche-Dury Corton-Charlemagne. This one doesn’t go on the shelf though, nor does it leave its cardboard box and styrofoam shell, with the exception of a picture and some light fondling, of course.

It’s a special wine, from a special vineyard. The vintage and producer… all special. At first we thought we were getting 2 bottles, then it appeared we were beaten to the punch. But after a few weeks of, ah—well, I don’t really know what—we ended up with a bottle.

Corton-Charlemagne, a Grand Cru Vineyard in Côte de Beaune, a Burgundy sub-region, produces but one grape: Chardonnay. The story is that this particular section of the hill is that it was converted to Chardonnay by French emperor Charlemagne after urging from his wife. She wanted a wine that would not stain his ample beard.

The rest is history.

Corton-Charlemagne is an astonishing demonstration of what the Chardonnay grape is capable of in terms of richness, power, concentration, distinction and balance. Rarely do we see such a perfect synthesis between grape variety and terroir. -Burgundy Wines, 2000 years of heritage 

Cheers!

-Rob.

After powering through a 6-course sparkling wine dinner hosted by The Barrel Thief for our favorite customers, then some party time/ball drop time with a little 1990 Jean Bourdy Côtes du Jura (It took Kylie, a loyal BT team member, about 10 minutes upon return to work yesterday to notice that we drank her birth year wine), a 2006 Arterberry Maresh White Rose Vineyard Pinot Noir, and my first experience with Chateau D’Yquem, I was, well, tired and hung over. But, a cool dark place was calling.

[Biggest thanks to Marty and Val for opening up home and cellar for the first day of lucky 2013.]

Marty’s cellar is an amazing place to poke around, I could spend hours sliding out bottles and putting them back. It’s like a working catalog of some of the best wines BT has sold over the years, most of which were long gone before I ever came around, and it would make any fan of Neal Rosenthal get a little sweaty.

[Scott, BT's chef Sam Hall, and Carey sipping Barbaresco]

[Ben Martin, of Elite Wines, and Carey. 2004 Paola Bea Montefalco Rosso (Umbria, Italy), 2005 Château le Puy (Bordeaux, France), and Cantina Del Pino Barbaresco Ovello (Piedmont, Italy)]

Happy New Year everybody! I hope 2013 brings you to some really great places.

Cheers!

-Rob.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/01/04/new-years-day/feed/ 1 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/01/03/if-i-had-an-orchard-id-work-till-im-sore/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2013/01/03/if-i-had-an-orchard-id-work-till-im-sore/#comments Thu, 03 Jan 2013 16:27:33 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18651

[Antique turquoise squash blossom necklace + Lillia's Closet robe + a rare stress-free moment.]

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique / Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes / Unique in each way you can see.
And now, after some thinking / I’d say I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery / Serving something beyond me.
But I don’t / I don’t know what that will be.
I’ll get back to you someday / Soon, you will see.

When I used to get off the bus in Chicago and walk the last few biting, cold blocks to my own personal purgatory office, I’d pass a construction site on the corner of Washington and something. Long after I’d passed, my mind would linger there, playing a reel of their bending and heaving, the heavy boots stuck in thin layers of snowy mud, plumes of steam rising from coffee and conversation, noisy machinery, and passing bus exhaust. And even on the coldest, nastiest day, I wanted to trade places with them.

Every single day.

I’ve been trying to nail down what success means to me for the last few weeks—all components of it, or, the only component. [It grows and shrinks.] I go in circles and contradict myself until it seems time to give up and just resume life with a more anesthetized awareness of what’s really going on. You know: ignoring what you’ll see things as, years from now down the road, not as you see them right now, as you’re adjusting the mirror.

I began making a list. I started with the hard-and-fast stuff; none of this “do what you love” fluff. I needed things I could hold onto.

My list began to look more like a pre-game strategy session from General Lee, with some bits firing at other bits, and still other bits coming in from behind negating original bits.

A huge chunk of these fell under a sub-category: Doesn’t Induce Massive Anxiety Attacks—which, incidentally, became the last man standing after qualifiers like “actually pays money,” “is legal,” and “am qualified for” had sucker punched the good guys in the smoke of battle.

Thus, my own personal search for the meaning of success begins here. In an admission of immense personal weakness. Anxiety.

I definitely wish I’d never learned what anxiety was. And not, like, in health class; the first time someone looked me in the face and said, “You’ve got serious anxiety problems.”

Imagine living your life unaware of a really basic emotion, like, anger. Aside from being a really funny prospect: “Holy hat is my happy feeling extra weird today, friends! I like you a lot, but the sight of your face makes me want to stab you a little bit?” it does force you to make certain creative conclusions. Ignorance is bliss.

Unfortunately, with anxiety being such a complex brain prison, it’s a little more nuanced, but you get the idea. Oh, I figured it out, alright. And it was like I had been plugged in and could retrace almost every moment I’d suffered horrible undiagnosed anxiety all the way back to kindergarten. They just slipped into place like some really deeply unsatisfying puzzle.

I’d always just assumed I was really self-aware, super equipped in the moment, and capable of thinking things through (all the way to their bitter, wretched worst-possible-case outcomes). This is probably why, when playing the Insult Game once in middle school [This happened. You'd leave the room, everyone would decide the one worst thing about you, then you'd come back in and they'd tell you what it was], my worst trait was I was “too serious.”

[If only I knew the secret to feeling this good all the time! Oh wait, I do: wine.]

What’s my name, what’s my station? / Oh, just tell me what I should do.
I don’t need to be kind to the armies of night that would do such injustice to you.
Or bow down and be grateful / And say “Sure, take all that you see,”
To the men who move only in dimly-lit halls and determine my future for me.

And I don’t / I don’t know who to believe
I’ll get back to you someday / Soon, you will see.

I tried meds once, but only for a bit.

I sat on the paper-covered seat, quivering slightly for no reason, telling my doctor about my perma-vomit-breath, racing heart, inability to sleep, pacing in the shower [it was 4'x4'], the holes ground into my teeth, and rapid weight loss, and she prescribed something I was keen to try, but only for a week, until I’d had a few revelations of my own.

I realized two things. First, no amount of leveling out could prevent work- and performance-related crises. Those are situational hazards, right? And after mapping out some patterns, I realized that’s where they all fell in my 31 years. Normal everyday life is pretty swell; but, give me reason to believe I might disappoint a parent, teacher, or a manager… forget it. Meds could possibly dull an immediate reaction, yes, or arm one with balance when it came to experiencing heavier moments, but huge fuck-ups, intolerable managers, judgmental assholes and a general atmosphere of competition weren’t tempered by anything less than horse tranquilizers, which I’m pretty sure were hot on the black market at a few of my jobs. Anyway, these things will always elicit from me an appropriate psychosomatic response—panic. Second, if I wasn’t supposed to be doing it, my body would let me know. I needed to listen better.

When I did fail, and emails or phone calls came through that were worse than you can possibly imagine, I was scarred. [I let a typo someone else made slip through while updating the Specials chalk board at the restaurant the other day, and I'm still angry someone noticed it before I did. Days later. I once made a typo that ended up costing  over 2x what my yearly salary was. That's not even the worst thing.]

My stomach still drops every time an email comes through on my phone, and let me tell you, it’s no way to live. I’m sure everyone has gotten a scary phone call—mothers, especially—so how is it they go through life not screaming OH SWEET JESUS every time the phone rings? [If you know, please share.]

Add to this the fact that I’m naturally a little bit reckless—even careless—and you’ve got this really hyperbolic situation of fluctuation between feeling cavalier and feeling crippled.

Typos get by me because, frankly, I don’t care enough. I hate being an editor. I always hated it. There, I said it.

So as much as I’d like the prestige, that’s only a side-effect and anything immediately under this category or requiring such a corporate culture will remain absent from my new “This is Success” list. Since, you know, they’re all knocking my door down…

They’d be on my old success list, maybe, which regrettably could be subtitled “Dad Will Be So Proud to Hear This”—I adore my father, but probably too much. Many years of subconsciously choosing career paths and jobs within the invisible parameters that they impress him (read: my idea of what would impress him, after all, he’s my dad, not the VP Managing Director of Carey) have left me feeling sort of defeated, confused, and like I haven’t ever really gone after something I actually wanted. Having to pay rent also contributed to this.

More importantly, I went after things that sounded absolutely terrifying. Because, to me, saying I’d done something that scared me made me feel tough, like my dad. And I wanted him and everyone else to say, “Man, she really goes for it.”

My father gave a toast at our rehearsal dinner that began by listing all the things I was good at. I’m paraphrasing here, but he went on to say that anything I gave a shot, I could do: numerous sports, piano, singing, art, theater, writing, school, dance, public speaking, I can’t remember the rest. To me, this wasn’t a list of my awesomeness. It was a list of everything I’d been too frigging scared to really try. A litany of things I never really went for, and thus never had to say I’d failed at. Things I’d tried, found myself to be relatively good at, then quit pursuing for whatever reason: I didn’t like competition, I didn’t like to practice, I was scared of performing, someone was always better than me, I didn’t have time, it wasn’t cool enough, my portfolio wasn’t good enough…

The list wasn’t a list of successes to me; it was a list of misses.

If I know only one thing / It’s that everything that I see of the world outside is so inconceivable, often I barely can speak.
Yeah, I’m tongue-tied and dizzy / I can’t keep it to myself.
What good is it to sing helplessness blues / Why should I wait for anyone else?

And I know / I know you will keep me on the shelf.
I’ll come back to you someday soon, myself.

This is a bit of a tangent, but relevant. I’ve found success for me isn’t trying to do everything. I get too tired too fast, half of what I churn out sort of sucks, and I’ll say with 100% confidence that agonizing over something being good does not ensure it is, in fact, well done. And really going for something—giving up my whole basket of tricks I’m holding on to like old boyfriends—means not being afraid to fail. On the plus side, I’d finally get to pour all of myself into something. That sounds delicious.

I have certainly made myself proud. But now I want happy. I want satisfied.

If I had an orchard / I’d work till I’m raw.
If I had an orchard / I’d work till I’m sore.
And you would wait tables and soon run the store.

Anxiety could definitely manifest itself anywhere I try to go—a muddy construction site, a cubicle, all the way to the garden I fantasize about weeding for a living. And it will be really hard for me to try to give up listing all the things that could possibly go wrong, because there’s immense comfort in that—a bleak sense of preparation.

These days, I think how we define success is changing fast, and becoming tougher to define than it used to be. And I’m so happy about this. Everything is possible and fascinating and fleeting! It’s evolved so much from 50 years ago, with entire new industries, new possibilities, and a demand for creativity and ingenuity like never before. People don’t just cruise out of college and get a job like they did 40 years ago. You have to be on your damned toes. The good ones think outside the box that’s outside the box. The best ones never take no for an answer. The shift is everywhere; the climate is vibrating. If ever there was a time to redefine what success means to you, now is it.

Gold hair in the sunlight / My light in the dawn.
If I had an orchard / I’d work till I’m sore.
If I had an orchard / I’d work till I’m sore.
Someday I’ll be like the man on the screen.

So.

What Is Success? By Carey

1. I’m going to do the thing as if I were given a guarantee I wouldn’t fail.
2. It’s not how much I’m doing. It’s how well I’m doing it. [Also, it's ok to say no.]
3. Success doesn’t come explicitly from doing absolutely terrifying things that you dread immensely.
4. Success does not always wear a suit.
5. Success is money earned that you actually feel like you earned. Not that you feel like you deserve after sitting in a chair in front of a computer for 8 hrs.

Ok, your turn.

To be continued.

-C.

lyrics: Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes.

[Theodora & Callum caftan via Shopbop + Sam Edelman fringed boots + antique Moroccan pendant via Free People.]

A bit of a stretch here, but that’s why I dig a good homage. I’ve been saving this pic of His Chrisness because I love this (probably fragrant) jacket and want to rip it from his scrappy body if I ever run into him wearing it. This caftan I’ve been dying to post about had a similar motif so—what the hey.

Look at us. All forlorn in our Native American-ish threads. Don’t sick the appropriation police on me! RZoe wore it, too!

-Carey

[An epic track. Sir Alistair Raj scarf + Shopbop hat.]

Apologies in advance I haven’t been able to located a 10-gallon hat, but you can see him do it better than I ever could. I want all of these get-ups:

[This is what it's all about: JCrew tie, tux shirt + vintage squash blossom necklace + Marc Jacobs blazer + Current/Elliott jeans.]

Like a solid gold soul song that never gets old. Remixed.

He’s just totally authentic, and I think that’s what I’ve always dug the most about him. To those who have noted I haven’t hit the glam rock vibe yet…. stay put. There’s enough velvet to go around.

Canadian tuxedo. I just realized that.

On to the next jam.

-Carey

[Day 4 in a sell-out tie dye shirt I didn't steal from an old boyfriend, but in fact bought from Urban Outfitters. This cannot be helped; Daydreamer LA's stuff is so so soft.]

A two-fer!

Nothing much to see here, just some loose recreations—on a lighter note, if you will.

Speaking of notes, check out this interview with Chris from Hittin’ the Note from a few years back. I dug this article; it was a lot to get through, but made me want to be courageous in ways I’d become too jaded to think were worthy of my time and energy.

Singers of songs are singing the same songs – they are all about the same emotions and experiences that we all have. To me, that is a time machine. It’s a line straight to where we’re going to be a million years from now, and a line straight to where we were a million years ago. When you open your mouth to sing, and when you make music, you’re part of that continuum. – Chris Robinson

I mean.

-Carey