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Anders Carlson

@nineteen_ninety_nothing

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Nineteen Ninety Nothing is a book about growing up as Nobodies in 1990’s Madison, Wisconsin. Speaking of which, Nobody is publishing it yet.

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Before Shepard Fairey and Banksy ruined street art for us nobodies, xerox art and show flyers were a glorious black hole for time, ambition and artistic effort. In early 1990’s Madison, WI, these posters by the two-man collective known as Rat Tar! were everywhere. Offering no useful info, inspiration or positivity, they were a testament to noiserock-adjacent philosophy and nihilism.

Instead of listening to me bloviate further, @bbrechnevv will tell you about Rattar!’s work. He knew both guys and used their artwork for his gloriously offensive band, Pachinko. I edited things a bit, don’t beat me up. Take it away, Brech.

“There were two guys in Rat Tar!, Eric Landmark and Jeff Roork. Jeff’s posters were rougher and had a sarcastic taunt to them, like a punk rock ethos. Eric was in the band Xerobot, and his flyers looked more polished. As polished as a b&w flyer can get, anyway.

We all met and lived together at Le Chateau co-op. Rat Tar! did an art show called “Violence und Entertainment.” Big blow-ups of serial killers, mass murderers and entertainers accompanied by funny quote cards. Jeff handled the killers. After he was murdered in NYC, I inherited his half of the show. Jeff also had a guitar built for me. It was finished after his death and presented to me. I had no idea. Jeff was also a filmmaker and a collector of bizarre books, from original Batailles, to Infectious Diseases, and antiquated dentistry. He ran projectors for my first band Rusty Crayfish and did art for the Deep Inside Pachinko 7” that got us signed with Alternative Tentacles.

Jeff was probably the best friend I ever had. I have a Roork tat on the inside of my wrists. I was and remain devastated by his death. He took me to Chinatown in NYC and I lost twice to a tic-tac-toe playing chicken featured on the TV show That’s Incredible. The chicken always got to go first. Fuck that chicken.”

#madisonwi #thenineties #xerox #streetart by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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2 months ago

In April 2001, some guy came into Badger Liquor and just destroyed everything.

He swept entire shelves onto the floor with his arms. He began with the wines, then progressed to the beer coolers. By the time the cops came, he was well into the vodka section. Three of Madison’s Finest came in and somehow wrestled him out of the store. Rather than taking him to the ground, they somehow lifted him out without dragging him through all the broken glass. Madison cops took their civic duties seriously. Much respect.

Anyway.

What’s the term for disturbed people these days? Whatever treatment he was undergoing wasn’t working. Angry that alcohol and tobacco had harmed his family in some way, he decided to trash Badger Liquor. He wasn’t necessarily wrong. Not like we were a public asset or anything. We sold cheap liquor in plastic bottles to bums, and somewhat classier stuff to college students. Totally get it.

The Pogues wrote a great song called “Streams of Whiskey”. But we had an actual stream of cheap wine, beer and liquor flowing directly into the cellar. It was about 5-6 inches deep. My guess is several hundred gallons, all in all. Damages exceeded five figures, can’t remember how much exactly.

Cleanup required a rented dumpster. Since the cops had used pepper spray (to no effect) on this guy, the store was hard to be in. The windows fogged up with ethyl alcohol condensate. It smelled like yeast having sex with a bum. But there was a silver lining. Alcohol laws in Madison were strict about open containers, but it hardly mattered now. Shoveling broken glass and debris, I found an unbroken Bass beer and took a sip. And immediately ingested pepper spray residue. Awesome.

Eventually we finished doing what we could and I headed to Nick’s for a beer. Word had spread to all the bars about the incident, so I drank for free the rest of the night. Every bartender offered the same refrain.

“Jesus, man, sorry. Here you go. What actually happened?”

Apologies to the photographer, I do not remember who took these pics and gave me copies. Last pic is of Drew, the owner of Badger Liquor, pretending to enjoy a glass of this awful vintage.

#bookstagram by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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3 months ago

This is prolly a good time to take a break from this exercise in pointless, unprofitable nostalgia. Because Nicole.

Fifteen years ago, we got hitched. I’m not sure either of us thought of ourselves as the marrying kind. Personally, I always thought I’d get married in a nursing home. You know, with local TV cameras covering the human interest aspect, me drooling on my cravat.

But a couple months after we started dating, it was pretty obvious. Stop drilling, dummy. You’ve hit oil.

I’m not the same person I was when I met Nic at age 18, smoking on a grate outside Ogg Hall. My love life was basically a barrel of monkeys on meth driving a school bus. That didn’t change much over the next 17 years.

Dating Nic was different. She was the scariest, hottest chick I’d ever met. Worse, she knew me when I was 130 lbs soaking wet, basically a goth coat-hanger for budget leather jackets and Bauhaus shirts. That would be in fall of 1992 for those keeping track. Roguish charm didn’t work on Nic. If she gave a shit what you thought, she’d tell you where to stick it. Mostly, she’d just look right through you. There was nothing casual about Nic.

And when I got down on bended knee in an Illinois cornfield to ask her to marry me, there was nothing casual left in me either. I tripped over my words. I kept feeling for the ring, sure that I’d lost it in the jacket lining. Worried she’d say no. Worried I had little to offer, zero financial future, etc.

But she took a flier on me. Fifteen years later, we’re still driving around weird cities, making up the adventure as we go. You still make me check the mirror twice, and I still see that metal chick in front of Ogg when I look at you. It’s a trip that we ended up together, but the biggest trip is yet to come. I should stop typing now.

Happy fifteenth anniversary, @tarnished_nic by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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4 months ago

Fans of nuclear families have a point. It’s intensely weird to have step-parents and family when you’re growing up.

My step-mom was from Taiwan, meaning my half-sister looked nothing like me. My dad’s affair with a grad student became a family in its own right, but the aftermath didn’t have much of a blueprint. I was the product of his first affair, my dad having met my mom in Sweden while his three sons and wife Pauline waited in Blacksburg, VA. Great dad, shitty husband.

I guess there was a blueprint, now that I give it some thought.

Anyway, holidays were awkward. The two families were oil and water. But one thread connected them. I hated both my step-parents equally. My step-mom was a workaholic, my step-dad just a regular alcoholic.

That said, my dad worked hard to stay my dad. He even came to X-mas at my mom’s house in 1987, complete with ex-parents in law and ex-friends. He went to court in multiple states to keep his visitation rights to his three boys from his previous marriage. And no matter how many sullen teenage silences I threw at him, he always stayed on the line.

Stanley D. Carlson died on April 23rd, 2009. Ours was a weird family, spanning multiple continents and cultural values. But even though his dalliances made for this mess, he stuck around to do all the dad things. He played ball even when he was tired. He tried to teach us piano, took us everywhere and bribed us with candy bars as necessary. Being a good dad came naturally to him, even if matrimony didn’t.

He let me watch R-rated moves, talked to me like a peer, and gave me unvarnished advice on dating. He never stopped playing me Chopin and Rachmaninov, hoping I’d learn to learn to love his piano music someday.

#happyfathersday Stan the Man. I forgive you for making me wear that Cosby sweater.

POST SCRIPT: As an adult, I get along great and love both my step-mom and my sister, who I always got along despite her being a younger sister and therefore inferior. As it turns out, it was just as weird for my stepmom to become a stepmom to a shy, tow-headed blond. In conclusion, we figured shit out in the 70’s and 80’s. The end. by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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4 months ago

Some of the first words I ever spoke to Kramer were, “Gay, gay, gay!” I was talking about something dumb and facetious. But he just smiled and laughed. Then we became friends.

Then I learned he was gay. Whoops. But he got me back. He told me was a Republican. Touché.

He was one of three Michaels we met from NYC. Calling him Kramer was quicker than explaining which Michael we meant. He was funny. He could outdrink you. He knew his shit when it came to this weird new world of advertising. And for some reason he was on our side.

For reasons only known to him, he decided to move to Madison to start a agency with me and Rick. It was a noble idea. The 90’s were full of optimism. Advertising was changing. Young Turks were taking over. It was possible that two nobodies and one somebody from NYC (that’s Kramer) might make a go of things. So we did. We got an office space and got to work.

We hung our shingle the same month the Tech Boom came to an end. April of 2000, I think. Bad timing. But the real problem was me. Plus, Rick was (and is) too good of a human being to be in advertising.

Kramer did his part, though. And on trips back east, he showed me NYC through a lens I’d never considered. I hated NYC. But he explained NYC as being, “a thousand little neighborhoods”. His apartment on Christopher and Gay (natch) was like a time capsule into the 60’s.

He’d make fun of my peacoat by saying I looked like “rough trade from Chelsea”. Then I’d call him all sorts of names. He was unoffendable, unapologetic and unafraid of anything. And like the asshole he is, he always beat me at Madden football.

In this photo, we’re just messing around with a then-throwback Polaroid camera. I’m not sure why he’s menacing me with an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, but it’s in line with normative behavior of the time.

Hayseed House, our boutique agency, only survived a year. But I learned a lot from it, mostly thanks to Kramer. And as it turns out, the next 24 years of advertising were never quite as fun. But for 12 months in 2000, we had the world at our feet, even if it was about to devour us.

#nineteenninetynothing #instabook #firstbook #gaygaygay by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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5 months ago

Ah, Rhinelander, Wisconsin. Country Fest in 2000 was a good time. Lots of funnel cakes, endless Miller Lite and the finest rednecks north of the Mason-Dixon. My gf’s parents lived in Rhinelander, and I grew to enjoy their “Up Nort’” vibe and the legend of the Hodag.

What’s a Hodag? It’s a hoax. It’s a made-up creature with green fur, the head of a frog, horns, and spikes along its back and mostly ate white bulldogs. It was made up by local land surveyor Eugene Shepherd, who finally admitted it was a hoax when he learned scientists from the Smithsonian were coming to investigate.

Anyway, Country Fest was fun. I even got to see Waylon Jennings perform, who came out in a wheelchair. Neal McCoy, however, sucked.

And among all the vendors, a hilarious misspelling at a jewelry booth. I didn’t take this pic to make fun of northern Wisconsinites, but for the benefit of @dr.fegg . He was unimpressed, as always.

If you’re north of Wausau, head to Rhinelander. Fine town, historical hoaxes and cheap beer.

#instabook #wisconsin #hodag #firstbook by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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5 months ago

Happy Mom’s Day. Even though all mothers eventually pass, their love, kindness and teachings do not.

This pic is likely early 1975. Though she was ecstatic over my existence, she was less than enthused with my dad’s infidelities. You can sorta tell she was not into this Kodak moment. Or maybe it’s just a bad pic. Who knows.

It’s close to two years since she passed. We always joked that I’d tell her all about the terrible things I’d done when I turned 25. When I did, I asked her if she wanted to know. She said no, you’re here, thats all that matters. She probably knew that I kept on living questionably for another decade or so. But a mother’s love is one of the few unconditional loves we experience in life.

I’m not a dad (that I know of), but I’m always blown away by the patience and long-view that parenting takes. The idea of imparting wisdom and love in ways not obvious until years later is quite the trick. Good parents are seers, of sorts.

Anyway, even when I was making all the wrong choices in life, my mom’s voice never left me. And even if she’d known I was being a dumbshit, she’d still love me.

In conclusion, moms.

#nineteenninetynothing #instabook #firstbook by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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5 months ago

She said she'd kidnap me. We’d just met after a Faint show. She was going to show up randomly and take me away. Not sure when, but the idea was that it would be fun. So, not a kidnapping at all.

A week later, true to her word, she showed up in a window-less Chevy Astro. We’re going to South Carolina, my friends have a cabin. Or a place. Let’s go.

It’s 358 miles from Atlanta to Pawley island, South Carolina. She started in Asheville, North Carolina, so there was real commitment to the idea. I didn’t think I’d made a big impression and I don’t think I was central to anything. I was just a dim spark for the idea.

Her van was filled with art, garbage and detritus. I found a warm tallboy of PBR, which I taped to a vent with the A/C on full blast to make it drinkable. We stopped to buy beer proper and tastefully drank and drove to Pawley Island.

Pawley Island was lovely. It had stilts hoisting the house above occasional floods or hurricanes or whatever they get in these parts. It belonged to the family of one of 4 or 5 friends who were waiting for us.

We skinny-dipped in the ocean, played “Indian poker” and made food all day. They call it blind-man’s bluff now, since the former name is kinda racist. You lick a card and stick it to your forehead without knowing what it is. Nothing Indian about that.

We went to Myrtle Beach to play putt-putt. We had a blast getting drunk and carrying beer around like it was a briefcase. Money was running low, but you know. Providence will find you.

There’s few times in life where care falls away. When magical thinking works. Everything will be fine. You just need to be present and listen. And do things you’re slightly afraid to do.

On the way back, we listened to a bunch of stuff I’d burned. Nick Cave, Kinks, Trans Am, Knodel, the list goes on. The drive back to Atlanta was so long, I felt bad for all the driving she did. You’re not supposed to empathize with your kidnapper. But the kidnapping narrative was long gone. I’m not sure what we were, but I didn’t feel like I was adding much.

Still one of the better weekends I ever had.

#nineteenninetynothing #publishme #ordontidontcare by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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6 months ago

Smoking was wonderful. We did it everywhere. It was a weird time. Everyone knew it was bad for you and living things around you, but whatever. Smoking section, please.

There were non-smoking sections in planes and restaurants, but there’d still be smoke everywhere. It was just a condition of life. People smoked around kids, holding babies, etc. While eating, working, the list goes on.

But it was the perfect thing to do in the 90s. Stare into space, look like you’re thinking something deep, light up. Repeat.

Sure, it causes cancer. But at age 22, there’s plenty of life left. Today we spend most of our time staring into the void of black handheld rectangles instead of space. Smoking was a social activity, or at the very least, somewhat introspective.

Smoking wasn’t so bad.

#bookstagram #1990s #givingup by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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7 months ago

The big pit bull was Buddy. Can’t remember the puppy’s name. They were soon joined by an iguana named “Little Man.” Then, several thousand cockroaches. By letting dishes sit for weeks at a time, thriving infestation took hold of her apartment in mid-1996.

These were part of Jenn’s strategy to get back at the slumlord for being, you know. A slumlord.

Otherwise, life at 900 Williamson St. was mostly a blur of Huber beer bottles, ashtrays and bongs. Terrible metal, like Type O Negative was played a lot, along with better variants like Eye Hate God. But Jenn had a soft spot for the truly worst metal ever created. Like My Dying Bride and a bunch of other awful examples best forgotten.

Jenn would get stoned and paint dark arabesques on the walls. Or she’s paint things like “Redrum” on the outside door. Or she’d just sketch, hoping to catch on at a tattoo parlor someday. In our next apartment, she tattooed friends for cash and trade. It’s weird coming home to an apartment that smells like blood and ink. She eventually became a very well-regarded tattoos artist.

It was a pretty savage existence. We must have eaten solid food at times, but I can’t specifically remember any occasion. Futons on floors next to heaping ashtrays. Arguing all the time, then the opposite of that. I have no idea what we argued about, but I’m sure it was important. Everything you feel at 21 is important. You haven’t lived long enough for the need to be thankful about every stupid thing.

People simplify the past and only work the warm and fuzzy memories to the surface. I guess I like hanging onto the prickly, nasty ones.

Walp, writing.

#thenineties #nineteenninetynothing #bookstagram by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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7 months ago

Groupie. Nicole. Nic.

I didn’t spend 17 years wanting you. It was pretty clear when we met I wasn’t your type. I weighed 130 pounds and you kicked my ass just looking at you. You dug guys with long hair and rap sheets. Or at least it seemed that way. Jeremy called you Groupie because you had all these pics in your dorm room hanging out backstage with rock stars. King fucking Diamond, man.

He was fucking with you, but you couldn’t care less. You were the toughest chick alive. You had on a Deicide shirt and crushed velvet leggings, with a cigarette dangling from that mouth. That mouth that could laugh like a loon or start a fight. Such a handful, thankfully someone else’s problem. But looking at you, the imagination ran riot.

College ran its course, and lives went elsewhere. But we’d always find each other here and there. You once put me in the back of your RX-7 and nearly killed me on John Nolen Dr. We danced at Jeremy and Michelle’s wedding. We hung at Mickey’s in 1999 and I swore we’d have kissed if we’d been drunker. It would take another 10 years before we mashed lips in front of Gold Star on Division St.

You’ll roll your eyes if I write anymore, but it’s worth posting these pics from Estelle’s and Empty Bottle from December 2003. It was your birthday, and I took lots of pics of you for a reason. I wanted to remember just being around you, even if we never saw each other again.

Seven and a half years later, we got hitched. So you’re stuck with me, though we don’t see enough of each other, what with living in different states. Whatever.

You could be a thousand miles away, I’ll still hear your voice no matter what I’m doing. And I’ll forever find your curly locks in all sorts of inappropriate places. by @nineteen_ninety_nothing

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7 months ago