Hippie Chic

Last June the higher-ups at Relix decided that I’m in need of new wardrobe. Realizing that most members of the Relix masthead are in need of a ‘clean eye for the heady guy’ makeover themselves, they enlisted the aid of an FOR (Friend of Relix for you civilians out there) named Jenny who has one foot firmly planted in both the jam and JAP worlds. According to reports from the shopping trenches, Relix’s makeover was a success, mostly thanks to Jenny’s ability to select items which are ‘hippie chic’ (the rarely visited middle ground between Banana Republic and Be Good Family). Her ability to pick cloths which matched both my black Relix t-shirt and my exposed white Jambands.com undershirt immediately impressed me and, when and if I ever get a raise, I’m defiantly going to hire Jenny as my fulltime stylist (right after I hire someone to teach me how to tie my shoes and brush my hair---I clearly failed kindergarten). Until then I can only repay Jenny with free tickets to see the Dirty Dozen Brass Band and with endless praise on my blog, a combination of which you see above.

Whatever You Do...

It occurred to me the other day, while flipping through some back entries of this here blog, that I’m pretty hard on myself, especially when it comes to girls. Admittedly, while sealing the deal may indeed be my most visible typo, I have learned a thing or two about female interaction in the last twenty-five years and, especially, in the last twenty-five days. And, as it turns out, the answer to my female problems wasn’t so much at the tip of my fingers, as it was at the tip of my toes.

Yes indeed, I am talking about my new shoes or, more accurately, my new six pairs of shoes. A good six years after I gleefully declared sneakers the bastard children of my wardrobe in the Skidmore News column which preceded the semi-dormant Jambands.com column which inspired his semi-active blog, I’ve come to understand that footwear isn’t so much about comfort as it is style. Clearly most members of female gender figured this out log before Bill Haley fused country and blues to rock-around-the-clock (case-and-point, the high-heel). And, over the last month, I’ve discovered that wearing nice shoes in a room full of nice girls is kind of like speaking sign language among a group of deaf people.

Like shirts and pants, shoes are, apparently, meant to be changed along with outfits, moods, and occasions. Contrary to popular belief, certain colors even clash (just don’t ask me to explain which ones). Since I’d sit around in sweatpants and a Phish T-Shirt if left to my own devices (the maroon one with the bee-hive I purchased New Year’s ’98 seems to go well with my sofa), I decided to defer all wardrobe decisions to a series of unofficial female-stylists (if any girls are reading this, I think I speak for all non-metrosexual men when I say that the clothed foot is the only part of the female body we don’t notice). And, after a month or so of research, here’s what I’ve learned.

1) Sandals
According to my research, (aka my friend Jenny, the shopper formally known as “drunk Jenny”) my old school sandals and my new school, but old school looking Reeves go well with the colors blue, black, or tie-dye and are perfect wet hippie festival like Mountain Jam and All Good, as well as summer trips to Urban Outfitter. Hippie chic indeed!

2) Slippers
Not your father’s parlor shoes these lace-less loafers are perfect for lounging around my backyard, by which I mean any area south of 14^th St. and east of six avenue. I like them the best because they remind me of the Velcro sneakers I was allowed to sport until 4th grade (I never mastered the art of tying laces in Kindergarten)

3) Grey Sneakers
Though I purchased this pair of New Balance sneakers to play soccer, my co-workers inform me that they are the best shoes for casual, daily life in my office. Yes, I occupy the only cubical in New York which requires me to dress down for work

4) Black Shoes
I am only allowed to wear my black shoes at formal events like weddings, funerals, and Trey Anastasio’s upcoming appearance at the 92nd St Y. Oh, and I’m told black and brown clash more than a New Yorker at a Widespread Panic concert.

5) Brown Loafers
An updated version of the brown loafers I wore every single day in 2006, I nabbed this shoe while in Israel, a fact I only mention because it means an Israeli woman helped me pick them out. I figured my parents would appreciate that one some level (see, I’m trying)

6) Browner Loafers
These loafers were actually the same color as the above mentioned pair before I attended 12 festivals in one summer. I keep them around because they are perfect for any concert where a tweaker may roll over my feet (pun very much intended).

7) Shitty Shoes
I’m currently searching for pair of “nice shitty shoes,” which I’m told can be both casual and stylish at the same time. I guess I aspire to be shitty chic one day.

Goodbye Old Friend...

As anyone and everyone I know will surely tell you, I’m an overly nostalgic guy and tend to attach personal significance to even the most inanimate objects. I cried when my Mom got a new car when I was 5, complained when they redid my play space when I was seven and made a short film when we moved houses when I was 14 (seriously). But, I place no greater significance on any piece of furniture I’ve owned, slept on or spilled on than the “hippie chic” couch which has sat in my living room for the past 26 years.

According to popular legend…a.k.a. my Mom and Dad…when my parents lived in the West Village in the late 1970s (you know, when they still had to walk 8 miles up three hills and fight off Indians to get to school) their apartment was so small that their loveseat filled up the entire living room and it wasn’t until they moved into a slightly larger (and more Indian proof) apartment in the even later 1970s that they could afford, let alone fit, a full couch. A few months after I was conceived (perhaps on that couch?) they moved to the country, or at least scenic Armonk, NY, and brought with them the loveseat, its matching couch and a pretty hefty vinyl collection as the main relics of their post-hippie squalor.

I think my first tangible memories are of that couch… my Dad sitting on it Saturday mornings…my mom cleaning cat hair off it so my allergic Dad could sit on it Saturday morning (true love or the original neurotic Jew?)…my uncle sleeping on it for somewhere between 6 weeks and 2 years depending on who you ask Overtime that couch absorbed many memories, some fuzzy, some carbonated, from my parent’s friend Judy smoking some strange cigarette to the Transformer party I had when I was 7 to the sleepovers that dominated my family room throughout my adolescence (shoosh, don’t wake my parents). Over the years I’d say a good 17% of my high school graduating glass spent at least one night on that couch and the rapidly rising number of Chiropractors in my old neighborhood is tangible proof just for comfortable it truly is. Though most of my friends are still figuring out how to make their way in the world, I’m proud to say that my couch has already hosted some pretty important people: Andy (who sadly now works for G.W. Bush), soon to be billionaire investor/poker player Jon (who to this day swears he developed allergies when he lost a coin toss and had to sleep on the floor one night in 8th grade) and many more of you out there than I’d like to believe from those early college parties (let me hear tip my hat to Hayley, Pete, Jen, Eric, Ken, Neil, Adam, Buddy, Lucy, Amanda, Caitey, Jay, Ned, Jermanie, Anna, Nick, Iz, Corey, Bill and the many other Skidmorians whose backs will never be the same after a right on that big, uncomfortable blob of memories).

I moved into Manhattan in 2004 and, oddly enough, found myself living just a few blocks from where my parent’s first gave birth to that big, old, dirty couch and have lived here every since. I brought along both the couch and the love seat, though sadly not the vinyl, and, for the better part of the past three years, my roommate Juan has used it as his de facto bed (even though he has both a room in my apartment and another crash pad in Brooklyn). As I grew with New York it was where Benjy and I recorded many early episodes of Cold Turkey, where I wrote many articles for Relix and Jambands.com, where my brother established his first home in NYC and where I first encountered many of the people who heave since earned their own esteemed blog entries over the past two years (you know who you are...). I once joked that I hoped to seed the next generation of Greenhauses on the very same couch that brought me into this world, but my Mom, always the voice of reason, simply said, “honey, have you sat on that couch recently? I don’t think so.” I’d like to be buried in that couch, or at least give it a 30th birthday party, but sadly, today, I will lay my old stead to rest. His wheels have gotten too rusty, his legs too weak and his cloth too frayed to host a neurotic blogger, let alone a multi-keg party, and tonight he will retire to that great living room in the sky (or at least behind my apartment building).

I’m sad that I never gave him a name since I’ve known him for so long, so I am going to follow the Jewish tradition and name him after the first friend I lost along the way, my cat Wimpy.

I managed to salvage some of his pillows and am trying to figure out something heady to do with them after I get back from Vegoose. But, until then, I’d like to toast my old stead Wimpy, who stayed with me through the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, the sober and the intoxicated and will surely be immortalized with one foot in the air like any solider who dies in battle.

Rest in Peace,

Mikey Greenhaus

Beauty School Dropout

On Saturday the time came for my bi-monthly haircut. Since I’ve pretty much had the same haircut for as long as I’ve been able to grow hair---and will likely keep the same ‘due’ until I ultimately lose that precious ability---I’ve always felt that getting my hair cut is kind of like going into a fancy restaurant and ordering a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich (which I’ve also done on occasion). But since the mop top went out of fashion a few years before even my parents met in high school (henceforth known as the beginning of time), I’ve been forced to get my hair cut at least once every two months for the past 26 years, if only to remind myself that I do in fact have ears. Luckily for me, long ago salons and nail parlors replaced firehouses and Rotary Clubs as my quaint, Nuevo-rich hometown’s focal points, so I learned how to deal with high-stress scissor artists at a very young age.

From what I can remember of those blurry pre-Propecia years, every time I’d try a new barber shop, or “salon” as they are called in scenic Westchester, NY, the guy or girl operating on my hair would give me some sort of “slight makeover” and the next morning I’d wake up with the exact same bowl haircut. I tried using gel, growing out my latent Jew-fro, shaving off my sideburns and, even, during one particularly heady summer, cultivating a neo-bohemian beard (which my bartender said ”gave me age,” my girlfriend said “scratched her face” and my Grandma said “made me look like a terrorist”). In fact, I think a major reason I decided to pursue a career in music journalism is because the kid in Almost Famous had my haircut and managed to score a job at Rolling Stone (as well as Kate Hudson).

Yet, even without factoring in the obvious trauma of watching my last remaining hair cells float slowly to the ground like Edward Scissorhands operating on the American Beauty bag, I’ve always found getting my haircut an utterly awkward experience. First off, I’m never sure how to say “just a trim” without somehow insulting the artist working my scalp and, no matter how old I get, I still find it impossible to look in the mirror for 30 minutes without making some sort of 2^nd grade silly face Worst off all, though I have absolutely no problem emotionally undressing myself online, I’m really, really bad at making small talk in person and, let’s face it, they don’t teach you about hippie chic in beauty school. Also, I’ve always feared that one day I’d find out that I shared a barber with one of my co-workers, which I feel is the only thing more awkward than bumping into your high school teacher at the mall.

But, since moving to the New York, I’ve found a decidedly not-hip, back ally hair cut place which falls somewhere between a turn of the century Barber Shop and the type of establishment Tony Soprano would probably hang around at before heading over the Bada Bing Club. In fact, as if they were pitching an HBO pilot, each employee seems to represent a different facet of the hair cutting community: the Italian guy who still speaks more Sicilian than English, the Russian guy whose answer to every question is usually “buzz cut,” the fair skinned guy who is either a homosexual or metro-sexual (or both if that’s possible) and the Jewish guy who, according to stereotype, only seems to handle the money. Interestingly enough, they are all named Sal.

Like entering any mafia organization, it took them a while to truly let me into the family, but, once I figured out how to tip without using my cell phone calculator, my shaves got softer, my waits got shorter and my reading material went from People to Playboy.
We’ve also managed to bond over some good old fashioned rock-and-roll, particularly, Elvis Presley, whose mug is plastered across the room like Phish posters in my college dorm (I like his music, they like his sideburns). Since I have a good six weeks before my own sideburns start to double as ear plus, I’m also toying with the idea of either compiling some highlights from www.greenhauseffect.com to bring in as a loose script or creating some sort of completely fabricated story about myself that I can develop a visit at a time until I really start losing my hair. Or until the mop top is cool again.