Popination Ideation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Junkyard Social Club.
Also, Pretty in Punk. Yes, you read that right.
AUTHOR’S NOTE (about Notes): If you are one of my intrepid subscribers that receives my work via email only, you might want to go to the Substack website (or app) to see what I toss up on its gentle and kind version of Threads, called Notes. The reason I suggest this is that I often add images that don’t make it into my essays, more insights and thoughts on my pieces, and of course I share bits and bobs of others’ work and other stuff that doesn’t make it into my full on essays. It’s a good place, Notes, believe me. Unlike Xitter. Just a suggestion, so you get the full experience of the Musings of Zuko. Plus, we’ve got a Saturday/Sunday Shelfie thing that a few of us do each weekend, and it’s super fun. So. Food (and Notes) for thought. And now, on y va!
As I’ve mentioned several times before, I grew up in Boulder and only a few years ago did I make Denver my permanent residence. Boulder is Place Of Many Quirks™ and you’ll know the stereotypes if you’ve ever heard of the town. Denver is quite a bit different, in population, in urban-ness, and of course in size and proximity to the mountains. But as you’ve noticed if you’re following my Popinations at all regularly, I do find my way back to Boulder on short visits rather frequently, whether it’s to visit my parents, get my hair done, or perform in a Blue Dime Cabaret show at DV8.
This time, though, I was in Boulder for none of these reasons. I was there to make a guest appearance in a punk-themed variety show, bringing my punkiest burlesque act in my repertoire, to a place called the Junkyard Social Club.
My burlesque origin story is actually in Boulder, as I first started out there when I was still living there and wriggling free of my marriage (my soon to be ex husband really didn’t like me getting into this hobby, nor did he appreciate my newfound love of wearing stockings, but that’s a tale for an upcoming memoir chapter). That troupe ended on rather a sour note, as did the other little Boulder group that I went to in its wake. This is the main reason why my friend and I began Blue Dime. So, as my own variety show was taking its customary July off, I thought I’d audition for Pretty in Punk, to scratch my performer’s itch in the interregnum. I’d heard of this event though I’d never attended nor performed in one before, and I believe they, too, began with that same ill-fated Boulder troupe, though I don’t recall. And, boy howdy, now I’ve had the Pretty in Punk experience, I’m sad that the series will soon be over, as the head of the bunch is moving on to other things. But I’m glad I found the Junkyard and them punks this time, at any rate. It was kind of a magical place, and very Boulder. I’ll explain.
Bug, Magic Bug
So the Junkyard, especially its outside area, gave me such a feeling of comfort and delight, and I couldn’t pinpoint why until the next day when I sat down to crop my snapshots of the place. It reminds me of my preschool, back in the ‘70s. And, as it’s an ersatz children’s museum or makerspace by day, that totally makes sense. It gave me a similar vibe, even though the first thing I smelled when I entered was coffee, and the first thing I heard was some dynamite punk rock.
I get the feeling that Junkyard used to be an actual junkyard, or a car mechanic type place, in that the entrance with the reception desk is right there as you enter, the floors are cement and the inner room where the band’s stage was was open not only to the entryway through a wide opening, but open to the outside with an open garage style rollup door. It’s still shaped like one, in other words, even though there are big cushy couches and armchairs with worn out upholstery in the sitting area, and a steampunk looking playground and makerspace outside, including a gutted pink VW bug sitting atop the sandy grounds, with soft seats and a good view of the outdoor stage. They sell coffee and little cakes and snacks and a small selection of local beer and inexpensive wine. Upstairs, the dressing room area was large, with an old but well appointed bathroom to itself. It looks like it’s used for craft projects by day.Â
What magical place is this? The sitting room, the playground, the scent of coffee permeating the place, the houseplants, the pretty young Boulder queers being all inked and pierced and (surprisingly) diverse and lovely. And that’s just it: by day, it’s a day camp and science exploratorium; by night, there’s live music and especially Pretty in Punk. The latter is a dynamite event that boasts a punk band in the first half of the evening (inside, as it’s been super hot and punishingly sunny during the day), and then, after a brief intermission, the drag and burlesque comes out onto the outdoor stage. And the pretty punks drape themselves into the bug, over the audience seating, and perch on the various platforms of the playground set to watch. The whole scene is childlike, fun, earnest, and absolutely delightful.
Raising the (coffee) Bar
I first walked in and, after depositing my costume bag safely upstairs, the band (Vegas Valley Drive) was going, and they were fantastic. The whole place was open via warehouse garage door to the sunset and elements, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee followed me around. And there were many punkish kids doing that stomp dance you see in mosh pits, in a joyful arm-swinging ring around the cement-floored rosie. A punk elder with a shaven head was showing how to do it, and was gently throwing elbows to make it into a real scene. Another punk elder with long hair and a kilt would start the stomp again whenever the kids stopped dancing. It was a beautiful, joyful sight, and one that I thought only lived in memories of the past. (By ‘kids,’ of course, I mean young adults. You get it.) I showed the stomping beauties to my partner via video clip and he legit started crying from sweet nostalgia. (The story of his checkered punk past is a long one, and not for this essay, but the Junkyard awakened a young joy in both of us, though only one of us was there to experience it.)
You guys. There are punks. They moon stomp and they mosh smilingly. Things might be all right after all, in the world.
And so, overwhelmed, I cleared my throat (raw from shout-singing ‘Punkpunk, punk ontheradio…’) with some rosé and a local grapefruit soda. Then I bought some dick earrings from the art vendor outside and got ready for my performance.
I’ve described this act in detail in an earlier Popination, one that was connected to actually I think it must have been the last time I performed it. It’s the punk-est act I have, and I like doing it very much, mainly because of the sacred status of that old leather jacket, and because the use of the real blades to cut my clothing off is quite the spectacle for an unsuspecting audience. This time, I added the tearing of my tank top and the fake-out use of one of my blunt practice knives before taking out the live blade. It went over very well, and I was glad I brought my act’s legacy to that young scene. Some middle aged Boom and Swagger and Boom boom boom, indeed.
Respect the Junk
The credo of Junkyard Social includes its rules and its mission. Included are such koan-like wisdom pearls as: Don’t break anything on purpose; 3 points of contact; and, Respect The Junk. No, that’s fine—I’m thinking of that double entendre as well. Go ahead. This place does have much of the hippie-granola mindset and the burnished, if not entirely sincere, dirt that my hometown is known for. Patchouli-scented. But in this case, actually coffee-scented, and not all white. It’s a good, good place for some brain comfort food and some body stimulants and emotional catharsis and some pretty punk. If I still lived in Boulder, I would be heavily involved in this place. Both its day-form and its night life. But regardless: I am glad, very glad, it exists.
THE JUNKYARD MISSION
To ignite curiosity, unleash imagination, & cultivate connection at the convergence of art & science
