Cloud Cult @ Varsity Theater 3-30-07
More to come...
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
And now, cried Max, 'let the wild rumpus start!'
Have you ever looked around and thought about how insanely talented your friends are? I have.
Tonight, I bought a new lens for the camera (holy BALLS he wasn't lying when the very helpful man at West Photo told me it would take awesome lowlight pictures...I just have to get use to the fact there is no zoom) en route to Bryant Lake Bowl to see Chipmunk's piece in 9x22 titled "How Jane Learned to Count." Little Lambie was her dancer. There was cake. Mmmmm...cake. We drank in the jungle of Bryant Lake Bowl afterwards.
I know they are beautiful.
I know I learn so much from them.
I KNOW WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE!
Charles Campbell of Skewed Visions transformed himself into Dr Strangelove for the second piece of the night. He actually shaved his beard onstage. Which was cool! Then he actually shaved his head on stage. Which was shocking! Then he stuck an egg in his mouth and when he chomped down, blood poured down his chin. Ohhhh the wonderful non boundaries of great performance art...
Anna Sundberg in "How Jane Learned to Count"
The Wild Things
Tonight, I bought a new lens for the camera (holy BALLS he wasn't lying when the very helpful man at West Photo told me it would take awesome lowlight pictures...I just have to get use to the fact there is no zoom) en route to Bryant Lake Bowl to see Chipmunk's piece in 9x22 titled "How Jane Learned to Count." Little Lambie was her dancer. There was cake. Mmmmm...cake. We drank in the jungle of Bryant Lake Bowl afterwards.
I know they are beautiful.
I know I learn so much from them.
I KNOW WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE!
Charles Campbell of Skewed Visions transformed himself into Dr Strangelove for the second piece of the night. He actually shaved his beard onstage. Which was cool! Then he actually shaved his head on stage. Which was shocking! Then he stuck an egg in his mouth and when he chomped down, blood poured down his chin. Ohhhh the wonderful non boundaries of great performance art...
Anna Sundberg in "How Jane Learned to Count"
The Wild Things
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Midwestern Bruce Girl Wonders
"I was 21 years when I wrote this song. I’m 22 now but I won’t be for long. People ask me when will I grow up to understand why the girls I knew at school are already pushing prams.”
Today it almost reached 80 degrees in Minnesota. It was beautiful as I drove, stuck in traffic on 94 on my way to downtown St Paul. My windows were down and I was blaring Cloud Cult so loud that it almost tuned out the motorcycle beside me. We did the seated reading at the Loading Dock Theater. It was good. Fun to enunciate the stage directions really clearly like on my cell phone voicemail message. Fun to put on a professional voice. At one point I looked at the audience and saw Anna and Laura, thanking god that I had friends that would support me endlessly, no matter how small my venture seems. These girls, the actress and the choreographer, understand the creative restlessness that comes with being the type of people we are. The busy schedules. The mediocre but still sorta fun day jobs. The insanely fulfilling hours after work. We sat with our beers after the reading and talked for three hours, telling stories of religion and relationships and MySpace and families and our questionable, unclear, wonderfully hopeful future. They are my constant support, my daily saviors, my foundation.
But then there’s my other half. My Morgie and Leslie. The married girls.
Leslie + Alexa = Lesexa…no one can ever quite get you like the girl who makes up the other half of your most infamous nickname
“What are you doing this weekend?” Morgie asks.
“I’m going to the Hootenany and then this show and then I work and then I’m going to this other show and then this party and then brunch and then rehearsal. What are you doing?” I say.
“I’m planting in the garden…” she says.
“And then what?” I ask.
“That’s it,” she says.
And we both laugh.
I love Morgan. She is my soul sister and knows my past better than anyone. Though we live polar opposite lives, she will always be my family. Like Carrie says in SATC, my insides.
I wonder…I realize…
“I don’t want to change the world. I’m not looking for A New England. Are you looking for another girl?”
My mom says I come from a family of big dreamers. My mentor in high school said I live inside my head. My best friends can read the blank expression on my face when I’m lost in thought. Those moments I break out, where my insides are torn into the outside, they are rare but they do happen. And mostly that comes when I start sobbing or screaming with elation or lost in the community at a (mostly Bruce Springsteen) show because that has become MY cathartic outlet. And I thought it never really happens here. Not like that. Not like my Brooklyn or Manhattan or Philly adventures. That it really only happened when I was on the East Coast. And people might say it’s because I allow myself to feel that way when I am over there.
In December of 2005, I had an amazing weekend and the greatest audience, the greatest concert community experience of my life at a Marah show in Philly.
Minneapolis is my home. But New York City has been my dream for years. I watched two of my best friends move to NYC, build lives in NYC, as I continued to stay in the Midwest. I was jealous yet too busy to dwell too much. But then that insanity dies down for a moment, I realize the stagnant pattern my life is making and I know I am ready. I know how much more there is out there. I know the people, the friends and family, the concert community, the artistic opportunity, I have waiting for me. This August, Brian is flying to Minneapolis and, if I want his help moving out there, that is the only time he will give it. I won’t drive out there with my blanket and my albums and my stuffed animal family and my wacky clothes by myself. That is my chance. My date. And it is only five months away.
The problem is…
“I love the words you wrote to me but that was bloody yesterday. I can’t get by what you sing every time you need a friend. “
Friday, I remembered how I felt that December night in Philly. It was beautiful, cool enough to wear only my bright neon Roos zip up jacket. My hot pink tights and my worn down army boots. Those electric pink tights screamed up to me from the whiskey stained floor every time I adjusted my position at the Hootenany to see beyond the scrambling children and booze passing adults. I listened, looking down, laughing with Jen every time the keyboard would start and we both connect it to some 70’s or 80’s tv show. I remember, with Jen’s help, Doogie Howser M.D.
We stand and I hesitate. I don’t know what to do. So I give the mofo sign, whatever it may be, to Stook and I begin to slowly walk out. It’s cool and I haven’t really decided my plans for the evening so I walk extra slowly. As I walk down the alley by Java Jack’s, I run into the HWTS (howwastheshow) group again. I’m much less afraid now than the first experience of the Hoot so I stand and I don’t hesitate. I talk. I begin to ramble. I tell My Ass is Big as a MOTHERFUCKA story and Jim walks out. He goes around the circle and asks us all if we are coming to the bar.
I say no. I have to sleep. I have to wake up at 8am. I have to make copies. I think I don't want to intrude.
That isn’t a good enough reason, he says. I know it’s not so I change my mind. I remember that I shouldn’t hesitate any more.
So I run to my car, follow Jen and Andrea to the CC Club and stuff down half of my pb&j on the way there. It’s the only thing I’ve eaten and I know that if I don’t eat it, I’ll get drunk just by beer contact at the bar. So, though I still feel slightly ill from my week of bed sore sickness, I swallow the peanut butter soaked sourdough.
I’m inside. I sit at the table of local music people: writers and musicians and photographers and I almost shit my pants. It still doesn’t really seem real. Really really real. Sit at a table of people you really respect and try to act normal. I'm never normal anyway. But THEN I hear the question…
“So Alexa is totally obessed, huh? You’re a Bruce Springsteen fan, huh?
And I snap out of my weird, insecure place, looking wide eyed as I suck in my breath.
“Uhhhh…hell yeah.”
After a moment, I unzip my neon Roo jacket to reveal my Born to Run shirt. And I begin to ramble. And I do not shut the fuck up for two hours. I tell the tale that is my Bruce obsession. I open that giant can of loud, passionate, writhing worms. And I slowly realize they understand. They tell their tales of Bruce fandom, catering for him during Tunnel of Love or snapping shots during Vote For Change or being in the audience for the Courtney Cox filming of Dancing in the Dark. THEY UNDERSTAND! I tell of my very first Bruce moment in the hotel room in Mt. Vernon, Missouri. And I tell my tale of Back in Your Arms and seeing Bob Dylan jam out with Bruce at Shea Stadium and Martin agrees that it really is the most underrated Springsteen song. And Stook tells me that his artist brother, another diehard Bruce fan, painted a picture of Bruce literally kicking The Jayhawks ass. Though I love The Jayhawks, I have to have that picture. Some laugh. Some don’t really agree with my adoration with The Boss but then they start rambling about their musical icons and it’s all okay anyway. It doesn’t matter who. It just matters that it’s there.
I talk about music. I talk about writing. I talk about photography. I talk about my fears and my passions. I talk about Bruce some more.
I wonder if I have talked about Bruce too much but then I just can’t seem to shut the fuck up. And I feel wonderful. My voice is sort of hoarse though I have chugged nothing but water for two hours.
Pat looks at me and say “God you talk dramatically” and I dramatically answer with not a shred of hesitation “I KNOW!”
I get up to use the restroom and my electric pink tights are still screaming.
That passion and energy that I am so capable of came out in full force Friday night and I have a massive realization as I buzz into an exhausted, rambling sleep. The way I felt with those people…on some level…that’s how I felt on my amazing night in Philly. It took a half hour there. It took three years here.
It was a little harder for me to find, a lot harder for me to be open to. But it’s here. Right in front of me. In my home. My city.
Maybe I’ll never be anything but that Bruce girl that one night at CC Club to them. But I don’t think so. I’m in control of that. And being that Bruce girl is pretty fucking awesome anyway.
I may never feel like that again but I never thought I could really feel like that absolute giddy gut busting girl in Philly again.
I realize…
I am so happy right now.
“I saw two shooting stars last night. I wished on them but they are only satellites.”
The people who know me the best tell me I should move out to the East. Though he wants me to more than anything, Brian doesn’t think I will. He knows how capable I am of living greatly in Minneapolis. But he knows how greatly I could live in New York City.
I always said I am the best version of myself in NYC. I just don't know what that self is right now.
I feel like two conflicting halves right now. The half that experienced Friday night and the half that experienced the other side of the nation:
Everything you could think to tell me has already been said.
I know it could be a temporary move but I don't want to think of this next step as anything temporary. It's my life and I want to throw myself into it. I've worked hard to get where I am in Minneapolis and I'll work hard to make my life in NYC.
If...But...Ummm....
I am afraid to say goodbye to Minneapolis, to this city of accessible, wonderful music and beauty, to this familiar city of friends and comfortable adventure. I am afraid of the fact that I am so happy right now. I am afraid of the fact that I still get choked up with desire every time I watch that video. I am afraid that I will not be brave enough. I am afraid that I do not need to be brave. I don’t even know what being brave is right now.
Maybe my dreams aren’t as grand as they used to be. Maybe I’m not looking for A New England, a new city. Maybe I’m not that other girl.
I just have to remember…
“My dreams were full of strange ideas. My mind was set despite the fears.”
Thank you to Billy Bragg and Kristy Maccoll for setting the soundtrack for my random, split thoughts with “A New England.”
The Song that is in Your Heart, Young Hedgehog
When I was a little girl, we were only allowed to watch one hour of television a day. And my mom never bought us video games. Though we begged, she never counted it as a priority gift. Instead Christmas and birthdays were spent rounding out my Kirsten the American Doll collection. I know I am a better person for it today but DAMN IT ALL I JUST WANTED TO PLAY MY VIDEO GAMES!
The neighbor girl, Beth, had two older brothers and they had an Atari. That was badass. Except two teenage guys don't really want to play with their kid sister and her strange neighbor friend, so we only got to play Pong a few times a month. In middle school, I become friends with Jill and she had a Nintendo. Ever weekend, after we would read the dirty passages from her mom's romance novels that Jill had bookmarked during the week, we would spend hours in front of the tv with Super Mario Bros 2 & 3, beating and blowing into the box whenever it would freeze up. I was ALWAYS the Princess. And I kicked ass. Finally, while I was in junior high, my sister, who had a very financially giving godfather, bought a Sega Gamegear. We owned Echo the Dolphin, Ren & Stimpy and, most importantly, Sonic the Hedgehog. While watching the melodramatic misadventures of Dawson and Ally McBeal, I, as a spiky blue cartoon character, would roll up into a little ball to knock the shit out of my competitors. And I was good. As Sonic the Hedgehog, I was an indestructible force. That was a mighty feeling for my weak and damaged adolescent mind.
Five years later, I became obsessed with Bruce Springsteen.
"But how the hell are those two connected??!?!" you might ask. Well...like you, I would have thought it impossible...until I was YouTubing Bruce Springsteen last night and came upon this fucked up, extraordinarily insane yet WONDERFUL discovery....
HOLY
FUCKING
GOD
I cannot BELIEVE that exists!
What's even more odd is the Bruce song of choice and the YouTube description by the creator:
"This is the fourth music video I made. When I first heard Bruce Springsteen's new song, "The Rising," I knew that would be a song perfect for the Sonic Underground to sing on the episode "Beginnings." "
Uhhhhhhhhhhh...okay...not really "perfect," Mr. Perreault. Maybe pixelly orgasmic, but not really perfect. Because Bruce is an odd choice to begin with, and short of any acoustic song, I think maybe The Rising, a song about coming together as a nation after a catastrophe, is one of the oddest choices he could have made.
Though after typing that sentence, I realize maybe it was a perfect Bruce song to use.
And I did get choked up a tiny TINY bit. Naturally.
Mr. Perreault, you are my new god.
I've never wanted to bone a heroic little cartoon character so much as when he opens his mouth and Bruce Springsteen's voice comes out. When Sonic rolls up like hedgehogs are wont to do, it gives a whole new definition to "Blue Balls." Shazaam.
The neighbor girl, Beth, had two older brothers and they had an Atari. That was badass. Except two teenage guys don't really want to play with their kid sister and her strange neighbor friend, so we only got to play Pong a few times a month. In middle school, I become friends with Jill and she had a Nintendo. Ever weekend, after we would read the dirty passages from her mom's romance novels that Jill had bookmarked during the week, we would spend hours in front of the tv with Super Mario Bros 2 & 3, beating and blowing into the box whenever it would freeze up. I was ALWAYS the Princess. And I kicked ass. Finally, while I was in junior high, my sister, who had a very financially giving godfather, bought a Sega Gamegear. We owned Echo the Dolphin, Ren & Stimpy and, most importantly, Sonic the Hedgehog. While watching the melodramatic misadventures of Dawson and Ally McBeal, I, as a spiky blue cartoon character, would roll up into a little ball to knock the shit out of my competitors. And I was good. As Sonic the Hedgehog, I was an indestructible force. That was a mighty feeling for my weak and damaged adolescent mind.
Five years later, I became obsessed with Bruce Springsteen.
"But how the hell are those two connected??!?!" you might ask. Well...like you, I would have thought it impossible...until I was YouTubing Bruce Springsteen last night and came upon this fucked up, extraordinarily insane yet WONDERFUL discovery....
HOLY
FUCKING
GOD
I cannot BELIEVE that exists!
What's even more odd is the Bruce song of choice and the YouTube description by the creator:
"This is the fourth music video I made. When I first heard Bruce Springsteen's new song, "The Rising," I knew that would be a song perfect for the Sonic Underground to sing on the episode "Beginnings." "
Uhhhhhhhhhhh...okay...not really "perfect," Mr. Perreault. Maybe pixelly orgasmic, but not really perfect. Because Bruce is an odd choice to begin with, and short of any acoustic song, I think maybe The Rising, a song about coming together as a nation after a catastrophe, is one of the oddest choices he could have made.
Though after typing that sentence, I realize maybe it was a perfect Bruce song to use.
And I did get choked up a tiny TINY bit. Naturally.
Mr. Perreault, you are my new god.
I've never wanted to bone a heroic little cartoon character so much as when he opens his mouth and Bruce Springsteen's voice comes out. When Sonic rolls up like hedgehogs are wont to do, it gives a whole new definition to "Blue Balls." Shazaam.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Happy Birthday Big Papa!
My dad turned 63 today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!!!!!!!!
Where do I begin...
Bill Jones
William Gene Jones
My dad legally changed his name from Billy Gene Jones to William Gene Jones when he left home, as soon as he could. If you call him Billy, he will kill you. Unless he likes your personality A LOT, which would be rare, or you vote Democrat, then he might spare your life.
My dad is a character. An eccentric. And maybe you will get a little bit of an idea of the man by this...
TOP ELEVEN REASONS WHY BILL JONES (the one I call Dad) IS AWESOME & CRAZY LIST…
11) He makes soap. Amazing, beautiful, olive oil based soap. And he makes chapstick. Actual chapstick in the little tube that twirls up.
10) He had this crazy, independently wealthy friend who was old and obese. This man, Tom, had collected art all his life and liked no one except my dad. This man, Tom, was about 400 pounds and medically insane. Once my dad went to his house and Tom was sitting on his mattress in the middle of the floor, crying. Butt ass naked. My dad didn’t judge. He just helped him. Tom liked my dad so he would give him his art and antiques. And my dad would give them to us. That’s how I got Carmine, the 50 pound life-size porcelain greyhound that sits in my living room. That’s how I got the two Dali watercolors that are signed by Dali himself. Tom ended up getting murdered by two of his housekeepers. When my dad found out, he said “I’m sad because I lost a crazy friend. I guess I’ll have to find another one now.”
9) He is a special education teacher at a public high school. He works with these kids better than any teacher I've ever known. He says...You won't change them. You won't fix their lives and change their future. You just have to be there for them during this one time in their life.
8) He has a hobby farm. I grew up with hedgehogs and snakes in my basement. And an entire room where birds, weird little canaries with toupee like feathers on their head, fly freely. They have cages; the doors are just open. I grew up with a backyard full of guineas and llamas and fainting goats and Jacob sheep and geese and ducks and peacocks. I didn't wake up to the sound of roosters crowing. I woke up to peacocks screeching "HHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPP" every morning. He used to keep hissing cockroaches in his classroom, until they escaped one night down the high school hallway. I never know all the animals he has down there or out there.
7) He works nonstop during the school year so he can travel during the summer, all over the world, by himself mostly. He has been to Turkey over two dozen times. He goes down to Tijuana to work at an orphanage. His newest travel passion is Ethiopia. He has been twice in the past five years and is going again this summer. Whenever you walk down past the ethnic stores at the River Market, he knows all the owners inside. Next year the International Bird Conference will be held in Barcelona. He wants to go.
6) He can act like a complete asshole when he loses his temper. I have seen him ignore, scream and act extraordinarily irrational. I have seen him push over the kitchen table. I rarely scream back when he acts this way because I am not confrontational like that. Even though I know the words that will hurt him more than anything else, I will never use them. Because though he is capable of so much anger, his best qualities come through so much more often.
5) He used to drive my high school friends and me around in the back of his Chevy truck. We would lie on blankets and look up at the stars as he drove us all around the windy country roads. He used to help with these great Halloween parties for my grade school friends and me. We'd have the dark room in the basement where there were the bowls of eyeballs (peeled grapes), intestines (spaghetti) and brains (jello salad.) He always stood outside by the basement windows to scratch at them and scare the shit out of us.
4) I used to watch "Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert" with him all the time while I was in high school. He loved the outrageous drag queens in the movie. While we were in Barcelona last summer, he saw two crazy gypsies getting into a fight and started laughing hysterically, almost cheering. He loved the outrageous gypsies on the street. While we were in Barcelona last summer, he was also the only person that would go to the Museum of Erotica with me, which, yes, was mildly awkward, but…whatever. It was fine and not all father daughter pervy. He liked the outrageous museum an awful lot.
3) He loves to cook and prepare food. When I am home, upstairs watching cable, he will always prepare plates for me of fresh gourmet cheese and sausage with crackers, grapes and juice. One of his newest hobbies is baking bread from scratch. It’s carbalicious.
2) Once, when I was 14 or 15, he told me, "Alexa, you can marry a Buddhist. You can marry a Baptist. You can marry another woman. But if you marry a Republican, I'll disown you." That is an INFAMOUS Bill Jones quote...and he probably wasn't kidding.
1) My dad doesn't really show emotion very much. He's not physical about his love. He's not a touchy person. He doesn't hug or kiss a lot, besides maybe hello and goodbye. But I will never forget one time in high school when I was cleaning my room. He was sitting on my bed with a garbage bag (he liked to threaten us to hurry up and clean up everything on the floor by walking by with trash sacks.) He was looking at the pile of shit I had found under my bed, which included my second grade school picture. I was wearing a red plaid dress and my mousy brown hair curled around my head and was held up by a black bow. He picked up the picture, held it in his hand, and whispered "my little Alexa." I don't think he knew I heard him. I turned to the corner wall and silently cried a little bit.
From our time in Portugal and Spain last summer...
I will always treasure the time we had alone in Barcelona, after my mom and sister flew home. Of all the adventures we had together there, my favorite time was when we would just sit, eat our green apple sorbet and watch the people go by. We were usually silent. It was so peaceful. I took this video of our people watching on the last night we were there. The bald man in profile at the end of the 30 second shot is my father.
I don’t know what physical traits I inherited from my father. I think I look a lot more like my mom. But I do know what psychological traits I inherited from my father. He gave me so much of my spirit, my energy, my love of a different life, of the outrageous. I don't talk to him all that much on the phone, like I do with my mom, but I don't need to. I know. He supports my arts obsessed lifestyle, my music and theatre and photography, my nomadic tendencies more so than anyone. Thank you, Dad.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!
Where do I begin...
Bill Jones
William Gene Jones
My dad legally changed his name from Billy Gene Jones to William Gene Jones when he left home, as soon as he could. If you call him Billy, he will kill you. Unless he likes your personality A LOT, which would be rare, or you vote Democrat, then he might spare your life.
My dad is a character. An eccentric. And maybe you will get a little bit of an idea of the man by this...
TOP ELEVEN REASONS WHY BILL JONES (the one I call Dad) IS AWESOME & CRAZY LIST…
11) He makes soap. Amazing, beautiful, olive oil based soap. And he makes chapstick. Actual chapstick in the little tube that twirls up.
10) He had this crazy, independently wealthy friend who was old and obese. This man, Tom, had collected art all his life and liked no one except my dad. This man, Tom, was about 400 pounds and medically insane. Once my dad went to his house and Tom was sitting on his mattress in the middle of the floor, crying. Butt ass naked. My dad didn’t judge. He just helped him. Tom liked my dad so he would give him his art and antiques. And my dad would give them to us. That’s how I got Carmine, the 50 pound life-size porcelain greyhound that sits in my living room. That’s how I got the two Dali watercolors that are signed by Dali himself. Tom ended up getting murdered by two of his housekeepers. When my dad found out, he said “I’m sad because I lost a crazy friend. I guess I’ll have to find another one now.”
9) He is a special education teacher at a public high school. He works with these kids better than any teacher I've ever known. He says...You won't change them. You won't fix their lives and change their future. You just have to be there for them during this one time in their life.
8) He has a hobby farm. I grew up with hedgehogs and snakes in my basement. And an entire room where birds, weird little canaries with toupee like feathers on their head, fly freely. They have cages; the doors are just open. I grew up with a backyard full of guineas and llamas and fainting goats and Jacob sheep and geese and ducks and peacocks. I didn't wake up to the sound of roosters crowing. I woke up to peacocks screeching "HHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPP" every morning. He used to keep hissing cockroaches in his classroom, until they escaped one night down the high school hallway. I never know all the animals he has down there or out there.
7) He works nonstop during the school year so he can travel during the summer, all over the world, by himself mostly. He has been to Turkey over two dozen times. He goes down to Tijuana to work at an orphanage. His newest travel passion is Ethiopia. He has been twice in the past five years and is going again this summer. Whenever you walk down past the ethnic stores at the River Market, he knows all the owners inside. Next year the International Bird Conference will be held in Barcelona. He wants to go.
6) He can act like a complete asshole when he loses his temper. I have seen him ignore, scream and act extraordinarily irrational. I have seen him push over the kitchen table. I rarely scream back when he acts this way because I am not confrontational like that. Even though I know the words that will hurt him more than anything else, I will never use them. Because though he is capable of so much anger, his best qualities come through so much more often.
5) He used to drive my high school friends and me around in the back of his Chevy truck. We would lie on blankets and look up at the stars as he drove us all around the windy country roads. He used to help with these great Halloween parties for my grade school friends and me. We'd have the dark room in the basement where there were the bowls of eyeballs (peeled grapes), intestines (spaghetti) and brains (jello salad.) He always stood outside by the basement windows to scratch at them and scare the shit out of us.
4) I used to watch "Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert" with him all the time while I was in high school. He loved the outrageous drag queens in the movie. While we were in Barcelona last summer, he saw two crazy gypsies getting into a fight and started laughing hysterically, almost cheering. He loved the outrageous gypsies on the street. While we were in Barcelona last summer, he was also the only person that would go to the Museum of Erotica with me, which, yes, was mildly awkward, but…whatever. It was fine and not all father daughter pervy. He liked the outrageous museum an awful lot.
3) He loves to cook and prepare food. When I am home, upstairs watching cable, he will always prepare plates for me of fresh gourmet cheese and sausage with crackers, grapes and juice. One of his newest hobbies is baking bread from scratch. It’s carbalicious.
2) Once, when I was 14 or 15, he told me, "Alexa, you can marry a Buddhist. You can marry a Baptist. You can marry another woman. But if you marry a Republican, I'll disown you." That is an INFAMOUS Bill Jones quote...and he probably wasn't kidding.
1) My dad doesn't really show emotion very much. He's not physical about his love. He's not a touchy person. He doesn't hug or kiss a lot, besides maybe hello and goodbye. But I will never forget one time in high school when I was cleaning my room. He was sitting on my bed with a garbage bag (he liked to threaten us to hurry up and clean up everything on the floor by walking by with trash sacks.) He was looking at the pile of shit I had found under my bed, which included my second grade school picture. I was wearing a red plaid dress and my mousy brown hair curled around my head and was held up by a black bow. He picked up the picture, held it in his hand, and whispered "my little Alexa." I don't think he knew I heard him. I turned to the corner wall and silently cried a little bit.
From our time in Portugal and Spain last summer...
I will always treasure the time we had alone in Barcelona, after my mom and sister flew home. Of all the adventures we had together there, my favorite time was when we would just sit, eat our green apple sorbet and watch the people go by. We were usually silent. It was so peaceful. I took this video of our people watching on the last night we were there. The bald man in profile at the end of the 30 second shot is my father.
I don’t know what physical traits I inherited from my father. I think I look a lot more like my mom. But I do know what psychological traits I inherited from my father. He gave me so much of my spirit, my energy, my love of a different life, of the outrageous. I don't talk to him all that much on the phone, like I do with my mom, but I don't need to. I know. He supports my arts obsessed lifestyle, my music and theatre and photography, my nomadic tendencies more so than anyone. Thank you, Dad.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD!!!! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Mama Needs a Medic
Remember this?
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, Bowling and Jigging and booze laced Shamrock shakes
Sunday: Work, Fringe rehearsal, P.O.S. at First Ave
Monday: Work, laundry (I'll finally wash my sheets, Mom!), block staged reading
Tuesday: Work, Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus, getting fucked up in the car, The Roots at First Ave
Wednesday: Sleep off a hang-over, Neil Diamond cover band with Taco
Thursday: Work, Staged Reading rehearsal
Friday: Work, Hootenany, some music somewhere
Saturday: Staged Reading rehearsal, revive my exhausted corpse with an hour of lit erotica and a bazillion gallons of that special Cliqout Club coffee drink
Sunday: Staged Reading rehearsal, Fringe rehearsal, James Hunter at The Fine Line
Monday: Staged Reading performance
Yeah...that would have been nice. Instead...
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, come home on my break to sleep in my bed for 15 minutes cause I was having trouble standing at work, sit sick and comotose on Genna and George's couch while the St. Patty's party happens around me
Sunday: Call in sick to work, sleep until 3:30, check email, drink Tussin, fall back asleep and have a dream that my boss found a card that I had given a coworker in which I wrote about what greasy a face my boss had (I NEVER HAVE WRITTEN A CARD LIKE THAT!)
Monday: Sleep until 2pm, do two loads of laundry, fall back asleep and have a dream that my grandpa is dying a slow death, wake up panicking, call in sick to work again, watch last weeks American Idol (Sanjyara must die), try to cast staged reading
Tuesday: Go to work, almost pass out at work, leave work after an hour, start crying in car and call mom, buy a Sprite 0 and an US Weekly, come home, drink more Tussin, and sleep for 5 hours, still try to cast staged reading, run to pick up Genna to see Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus and Roots at First Ave (HOLY FUCK...though I was standing completely sober and somewhat dead at the top by the bathrooms...had an amazing view of one of THE BEST SHOWS I HAVE SEEN AT FIRST AVE!)
Wednesday: Wake up at 1pm, realize staged reading isn't going to happen because I can't get the people on such short notice and change it to a seated reading, eat some Sudafed, drive to Genna's where I watch America's Next Top Model and Medium, come home, sleep
Thursday: Come hell or highwater I am working! I need the money so badly. If something happens and I can't paint faces up tomorrow, I may need to start giving other services for cash. I did get a friend request on MySpace from a 53 year old guy (resembling a fat Stephen King) who claims to be a "Medical Fetish," you know "playing doctor for erotic purpose." If he requests you as a friend, it's because he sees that "we have something in common or you are one of those hot goth chicks I love so much." (As I am definitely not goth, WHAT THE FUCK DO I HAVE IN COMMON WITH THIS GUY?)
Seriously, this has been awful. I haven't been this sick in a really really long time. I'm usually so active and I hate that I cannot do everything that I want to do. Or need to do. Maybe Doc Med Fed SickFuck will make a house call to make Jonesie all better.
Mama Jonesie's brain on Tussin and Sudafed...
Man...I fucking love that song. It was my first favorite Tom Petty.
After doing a mini booty dance on Genna's couch tonight, I realize I am feeling a bit more like myself.
I will leave on this note...this little "story" is familiar to some friends and not to others but I feel as if it MAYBE best reveals the inner workings of Jonesie. I will MAYBE regret revealing this to cyber world.
I have been known...in my long long ago past...to MAYBE venture into this war torn mental territory...
I MAYBE like to pretend that I am a sick, hot soldier and my hand and arm is a nurse. When I feed myself, especially soup, his mouth opens slightly and she lightly pours the bit of soup in, and maybe whispers words of healthy encouragement into his ear, all romantic like. I imagine that the sick, hot soldier and the nurse are falling madly in love with each other.
There MAYBE has been some soldier and nurse happening this week. I blame it on the meds.
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, Bowling and Jigging and booze laced Shamrock shakes
Sunday: Work, Fringe rehearsal, P.O.S. at First Ave
Monday: Work, laundry (I'll finally wash my sheets, Mom!), block staged reading
Tuesday: Work, Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus, getting fucked up in the car, The Roots at First Ave
Wednesday: Sleep off a hang-over, Neil Diamond cover band with Taco
Thursday: Work, Staged Reading rehearsal
Friday: Work, Hootenany, some music somewhere
Saturday: Staged Reading rehearsal, revive my exhausted corpse with an hour of lit erotica and a bazillion gallons of that special Cliqout Club coffee drink
Sunday: Staged Reading rehearsal, Fringe rehearsal, James Hunter at The Fine Line
Monday: Staged Reading performance
Yeah...that would have been nice. Instead...
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, come home on my break to sleep in my bed for 15 minutes cause I was having trouble standing at work, sit sick and comotose on Genna and George's couch while the St. Patty's party happens around me
Sunday: Call in sick to work, sleep until 3:30, check email, drink Tussin, fall back asleep and have a dream that my boss found a card that I had given a coworker in which I wrote about what greasy a face my boss had (I NEVER HAVE WRITTEN A CARD LIKE THAT!)
Monday: Sleep until 2pm, do two loads of laundry, fall back asleep and have a dream that my grandpa is dying a slow death, wake up panicking, call in sick to work again, watch last weeks American Idol (Sanjyara must die), try to cast staged reading
Tuesday: Go to work, almost pass out at work, leave work after an hour, start crying in car and call mom, buy a Sprite 0 and an US Weekly, come home, drink more Tussin, and sleep for 5 hours, still try to cast staged reading, run to pick up Genna to see Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus and Roots at First Ave (HOLY FUCK...though I was standing completely sober and somewhat dead at the top by the bathrooms...had an amazing view of one of THE BEST SHOWS I HAVE SEEN AT FIRST AVE!)
Wednesday: Wake up at 1pm, realize staged reading isn't going to happen because I can't get the people on such short notice and change it to a seated reading, eat some Sudafed, drive to Genna's where I watch America's Next Top Model and Medium, come home, sleep
Thursday: Come hell or highwater I am working! I need the money so badly. If something happens and I can't paint faces up tomorrow, I may need to start giving other services for cash. I did get a friend request on MySpace from a 53 year old guy (resembling a fat Stephen King) who claims to be a "Medical Fetish," you know "playing doctor for erotic purpose." If he requests you as a friend, it's because he sees that "we have something in common or you are one of those hot goth chicks I love so much." (As I am definitely not goth, WHAT THE FUCK DO I HAVE IN COMMON WITH THIS GUY?)
Seriously, this has been awful. I haven't been this sick in a really really long time. I'm usually so active and I hate that I cannot do everything that I want to do. Or need to do. Maybe Doc Med Fed SickFuck will make a house call to make Jonesie all better.
Mama Jonesie's brain on Tussin and Sudafed...
Man...I fucking love that song. It was my first favorite Tom Petty.
After doing a mini booty dance on Genna's couch tonight, I realize I am feeling a bit more like myself.
I will leave on this note...this little "story" is familiar to some friends and not to others but I feel as if it MAYBE best reveals the inner workings of Jonesie. I will MAYBE regret revealing this to cyber world.
I have been known...in my long long ago past...to MAYBE venture into this war torn mental territory...
I MAYBE like to pretend that I am a sick, hot soldier and my hand and arm is a nurse. When I feed myself, especially soup, his mouth opens slightly and she lightly pours the bit of soup in, and maybe whispers words of healthy encouragement into his ear, all romantic like. I imagine that the sick, hot soldier and the nurse are falling madly in love with each other.
There MAYBE has been some soldier and nurse happening this week. I blame it on the meds.
Monday, March 19, 2007
A Very UnHappy Life
I'm sick.
And not the "I drank too much on St. Patty's and slept next to the toilet" sick. But the body pains, head pounding, rattling cough sick. I fell asleep at 1am, woke up at 2am when my sister called me because she was throwing up from the booze and thought I would be in the same predicament (alas, I was not, no spiked shamrock shakes for me on this St. Patty's Eve...Poo...I had all the signs of a massive hangover...just no booze), woke up again at 10am to call in sick to work where I am SURE they thought I had a massive hangover, went back to bed and slept until 3:30pm. Then, when I finally mustered up the energy to lift my head I, VERY pathetically, swatted for my laptop so I could get it closer to me. It hurt to check my email. But check it, I did. I may be sick but I ain't dead. Obsession still be thrivin'. Then, I paid my roommate Jim to go to the store to get me chicken noodle soup and OJ, with pulp of course. (When he said he would do it for free, I believe my actual phrasing was "fine then buy something nice for yourself" as I shoved the food money into his hand.) I felt a lot like Samatha from SATC (two references in a week, beeyotch) when she had the flu and felt really sorry for herself that she didn't have a man to help her out (it's rare but it does happen to me.) So she called that laundry list of guys she had slept with recently. I don't have a laundry list. I just have my gay roommate Jim. And he wanted some cash to buy an energy drink so errand he did run.
Then I realized that the nasty poppopfizzin' of Alka Seltzer wouldn't be enough for me. Without changing out of my sickie jammies, putting a bra on or brushing my teeth, I slipped on my nice black shoes over my slipper socks (they were the only shoes that would fit) and drove to the neighborhood Walgreen's where the nice pharamcist lady told me that Sudafed would not help my ailment. Oh no, 'Tussin was her answer. And I laughed a little as I thought about Chris Rock and his stand up making me all better. Then I bought an unspiked Shamrock shake because I never really got to celebrate the holiday and I was feeling sorry for myself. I laid in bed with the fake green goodness nestled in my arm pit, against my chest, and sipped pathetically from the straw, without ever lifting my hand. Whimpering as I took breaths in between long, slows gulps of leprechaun jiz. I was like a sickly gerbal drinking from those little free hanging water bottles. SWEET!
Thought of the afternoon, no P.O.S. at First Ave for me tonight after rehearsal. Poo.
Considering my insane sleeping schedule, this was a long time coming. I have learned that 2 hours of sleep one night and 13 hours of sleep the next does NOT average out to two nights of good sleep. Hmmm...fancy that.
Anyway, my happy thought for the day/week/month has been the Hoot on Friday where I saw an extraordinarily inspiring set of live music. Hosted by the Mad Ripple, the guests were the Kyle family, a father, Paul, and three of his (all grown up and extremely good looking) sons who were from Belfast. The sang lovely songs about Minnesota, about New York and about their homeland. I felt as if I was on this adventure with them, loving my current home yet inspired to...I don't know...seek out adventure and growth maybe. At one point, Paul Kyle sang "The Flame Song," which had been in the running as an offical Olympics song when they were held in Sydney, AU. The Kyles were in Australia for a conference and, after a strange series of events, this song was in the running. Though it wasn't chosen, The Flame Song became the unofficial anthem for the Olympics that year. Athletes heard it. The people of Australia heard it. Paul spoke about how, as the flame would come through their towns, villages had learned it and sung it, children would dance to it. For the first time in a long time, I thought of my bootleg trading days, a year that left me with about 250 live Springsteen shows on CD and DVD, and how much I wish I could have a boot of this show. It wouldn't be perfect but it would help me never forget the beauty of that overwhelming evening.
"Does the flame burn brighter in your hand than it burns in the hand of your father when he said it's your turn?"
Now, here is what WAS chosen as the official Sydney Olympics song...
uhhh...gross...YIPES!...
Upon viewing the above video and investigating "The Flame Song" further, I began to wonder how contrived or cheesy it all was. "The Flame Song" was originally written about passing the torch of faith. As I am not a churchy religious person, that sort of freaks me out...oh god...no...I LOVE AN INSPIRATIONAL CHRISTIAN SONG! I automatically think of Jesus Camp or those weird church channels that my crappy reception gets in quite clearly. In the end, I am not so closed off to spirituality that I will automatically disregard something because it is labeled Christian, religious or inspirational. I might put it through the ringer a bit more or become more tentative when showing it to others, like it is a guilty pleasure or something. Maybe that's extraordinarily judgemental; maybe I've just questioned for too long; maybe I don't have enough faith. I certainly don't doubt the power and authenticity I felt Friday night. It wasn't about conservative Christianity to me and, much to my mother's chagrin, I'm not going to start going to church every Sunday. In the dark, intimate basement of Java Jacks, as Paul Kyle sang, played the guitar, and his sons sang backup, played drums and guitars, I thought about this one song not only connecting a family but uniting an entire country. I just felt braver. And maybe that much more spiritual.
Bruce Springsteen: "Some people pray, some people play music."
Big thoughts for a clouded brain.
Time to finish my soup, drink my OJ, take my 'Tussin, watch "Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill", fall asleep to have wild 'Tussin dreams, and pray that I don't shat out the next saviour. Poo.
Pray for me, pooheads. WOO! TUSSIN!
SICKNESS UPDATE: It's 4:15 am and I can't fall asleep. So I looked up craigslist missed connections (guilty pleasure number two) and found the most brilliant question ever asked on the internet...
"looking for the girl that gave me head at white castle in blaine 7 years ago... you out there?"
Wow. I swear to god that wasn't me. But oh how it's just too good. That combination of words is possibly the most pathetic, trashy, awesome sentence one could ever utter. Oh PostingID: 295838607...I hope you found your ho!
And not the "I drank too much on St. Patty's and slept next to the toilet" sick. But the body pains, head pounding, rattling cough sick. I fell asleep at 1am, woke up at 2am when my sister called me because she was throwing up from the booze and thought I would be in the same predicament (alas, I was not, no spiked shamrock shakes for me on this St. Patty's Eve...Poo...I had all the signs of a massive hangover...just no booze), woke up again at 10am to call in sick to work where I am SURE they thought I had a massive hangover, went back to bed and slept until 3:30pm. Then, when I finally mustered up the energy to lift my head I, VERY pathetically, swatted for my laptop so I could get it closer to me. It hurt to check my email. But check it, I did. I may be sick but I ain't dead. Obsession still be thrivin'. Then, I paid my roommate Jim to go to the store to get me chicken noodle soup and OJ, with pulp of course. (When he said he would do it for free, I believe my actual phrasing was "fine then buy something nice for yourself" as I shoved the food money into his hand.) I felt a lot like Samatha from SATC (two references in a week, beeyotch) when she had the flu and felt really sorry for herself that she didn't have a man to help her out (it's rare but it does happen to me.) So she called that laundry list of guys she had slept with recently. I don't have a laundry list. I just have my gay roommate Jim. And he wanted some cash to buy an energy drink so errand he did run.
Then I realized that the nasty poppopfizzin' of Alka Seltzer wouldn't be enough for me. Without changing out of my sickie jammies, putting a bra on or brushing my teeth, I slipped on my nice black shoes over my slipper socks (they were the only shoes that would fit) and drove to the neighborhood Walgreen's where the nice pharamcist lady told me that Sudafed would not help my ailment. Oh no, 'Tussin was her answer. And I laughed a little as I thought about Chris Rock and his stand up making me all better. Then I bought an unspiked Shamrock shake because I never really got to celebrate the holiday and I was feeling sorry for myself. I laid in bed with the fake green goodness nestled in my arm pit, against my chest, and sipped pathetically from the straw, without ever lifting my hand. Whimpering as I took breaths in between long, slows gulps of leprechaun jiz. I was like a sickly gerbal drinking from those little free hanging water bottles. SWEET!
Thought of the afternoon, no P.O.S. at First Ave for me tonight after rehearsal. Poo.
Considering my insane sleeping schedule, this was a long time coming. I have learned that 2 hours of sleep one night and 13 hours of sleep the next does NOT average out to two nights of good sleep. Hmmm...fancy that.
Anyway, my happy thought for the day/week/month has been the Hoot on Friday where I saw an extraordinarily inspiring set of live music. Hosted by the Mad Ripple, the guests were the Kyle family, a father, Paul, and three of his (all grown up and extremely good looking) sons who were from Belfast. The sang lovely songs about Minnesota, about New York and about their homeland. I felt as if I was on this adventure with them, loving my current home yet inspired to...I don't know...seek out adventure and growth maybe. At one point, Paul Kyle sang "The Flame Song," which had been in the running as an offical Olympics song when they were held in Sydney, AU. The Kyles were in Australia for a conference and, after a strange series of events, this song was in the running. Though it wasn't chosen, The Flame Song became the unofficial anthem for the Olympics that year. Athletes heard it. The people of Australia heard it. Paul spoke about how, as the flame would come through their towns, villages had learned it and sung it, children would dance to it. For the first time in a long time, I thought of my bootleg trading days, a year that left me with about 250 live Springsteen shows on CD and DVD, and how much I wish I could have a boot of this show. It wouldn't be perfect but it would help me never forget the beauty of that overwhelming evening.
"Does the flame burn brighter in your hand than it burns in the hand of your father when he said it's your turn?"
Now, here is what WAS chosen as the official Sydney Olympics song...
uhhh...gross...YIPES!...
Upon viewing the above video and investigating "The Flame Song" further, I began to wonder how contrived or cheesy it all was. "The Flame Song" was originally written about passing the torch of faith. As I am not a churchy religious person, that sort of freaks me out...oh god...no...I LOVE AN INSPIRATIONAL CHRISTIAN SONG! I automatically think of Jesus Camp or those weird church channels that my crappy reception gets in quite clearly. In the end, I am not so closed off to spirituality that I will automatically disregard something because it is labeled Christian, religious or inspirational. I might put it through the ringer a bit more or become more tentative when showing it to others, like it is a guilty pleasure or something. Maybe that's extraordinarily judgemental; maybe I've just questioned for too long; maybe I don't have enough faith. I certainly don't doubt the power and authenticity I felt Friday night. It wasn't about conservative Christianity to me and, much to my mother's chagrin, I'm not going to start going to church every Sunday. In the dark, intimate basement of Java Jacks, as Paul Kyle sang, played the guitar, and his sons sang backup, played drums and guitars, I thought about this one song not only connecting a family but uniting an entire country. I just felt braver. And maybe that much more spiritual.
Bruce Springsteen: "Some people pray, some people play music."
Big thoughts for a clouded brain.
Time to finish my soup, drink my OJ, take my 'Tussin, watch "Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill", fall asleep to have wild 'Tussin dreams, and pray that I don't shat out the next saviour. Poo.
Pray for me, pooheads. WOO! TUSSIN!
SICKNESS UPDATE: It's 4:15 am and I can't fall asleep. So I looked up craigslist missed connections (guilty pleasure number two) and found the most brilliant question ever asked on the internet...
"looking for the girl that gave me head at white castle in blaine 7 years ago... you out there?"
Wow. I swear to god that wasn't me. But oh how it's just too good. That combination of words is possibly the most pathetic, trashy, awesome sentence one could ever utter. Oh PostingID: 295838607...I hope you found your ho!
Friday, March 16, 2007
A Very Happy Life
You know that scene from Sex and the City in the end of Season 4 when Samantha is hosting that party on her roof for the neighborhood trannies,and Carrie wears those god awful booty shorts (that the trannies love, of course.) There's those caged chickens across from Carrie's bedroom window that keep waking her up so she has them sent away. At the end of the episode, that song is playing and all the ladies (chicks and chix with dix) are up on the roof laughing and eating their wieners and dancing around. Carrie as narrator says, when remembering the chickens, "I hope they have a very happy life." And Alexa is crying because it is all so happy, the music and the ladies and the chickens.
I think about that scene a lot. Cause, y'know, I'm packing a lot of heat beneath my leggings. A lot o' heat.
TRANNIES 4 EVA!
Because, in spite of the tears and exhaustion and uncertainty and sometimes loneliness, I have a very happy life.
A very happy, very busy life.
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, Bowling and Jigging and booze laced Shamrock shakes
Sunday: Work, Fringe rehearsal, P.O.S. at First Ave
Monday: Work, laundry (I'll finally wash my sheets, Mom!), block staged reading
Tuesday: Work, Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus, getting fucked up in the car, The Roots at First Ave
Wednesday: Sleep off a hang-over, Neil Diamond cover band with Taco
Thursday: Work, Staged Reading rehearsal
Friday: Work, Hootenany, some music somewhere
Saturday: Staged Reading rehearsal, revive my exhausted corpse with an hour of lit erotica and a bazillion gallons of that special Cliqout Club coffee drink
Sunday: Staged Reading rehearsal, Fringe rehearsal, James Hunter at The Fine Line
Monday: Staged Reading performance
Tuesday, I finally fall sleep for real and never wake up. Buttplug, you can take Rufus and Cornelius. Morgie, you can take 80's monkey. Badonks, you can take Carmine. Little Lamb, you can have Pretzel. Roomsie, you can have Weenie Pup. Taco, you can take Corky. Frenchie, the glorified dog toy, is to be sent home to Fanny so she can play with the squeak. I am to be buried with Kitty Cat Blanket and Sonny. I expect you all to take very good care of my stuffed animal family. Treat them as you would treat me, expect less urine. Oh yeah, Shaly, you can have my camera and my collection of lingerie (a kickass corset and one frilly heart number, with matching thong.)
Last night, after getting lost downtown, scammed in the parking lot & fucked up on the corner, George and I stood in back of the crowd at First Ave for TV on the Radio. Our eyes were closed for much of the show and we danced in our spots, with ourselves, swaying and jumping back and forth as they rocked out on stage. A friend offered me the ticket. I have two of their albums but never was a huge fan, though Staring at the Sun is one of my all time favorite songs to exercise to. So I said yes, I'll go, because rarely will I say no, I should stay home and get caught up on my sleep so I don't go into cardiac arrest. Like George said, they actually rocked out harder than I thought this band possible. And of course they played Staring at the Sun. It was the final song, a clubbed out version that had me mentally (and sort of actually) running in place. I was seriously moving my arms back and forth as if I was running faster than ever before. That's called dancing, kids. Jonesie style.
Tonight, I ate. An amazing Thai seafood soup and figs with chocolate covered almonds for dessert. Will and Ariel (a couple Holway Chipmunk knows through Zenon Dance) have this Cedar Riverside apartment that is huge, beautiful and totally one of my happy places. Knick-Knacks from around the world, corner to corner. Chipmunk and Little Lamb and I sat and ate this feast. Tonight, I sang. Ariel, after performing a few Lily Allen numbers as Will backed on the guitar, stuck in the karaoke CD. We stood up to the mic and sang Sonny & Cher and a little Janis and I put the words from Born to Run in when I couldn't remember the actual lyrics. Tonight, I bathed a hedgehog named Petunia. She's their pet. And she's the happiest hedgehog in the entire world. Will brought her out and started to bathe her (to make her poop, naturally) and then let me finish (not pooping, bathing.) Petunia would stick her little snout out and wiggle her raisin nose as the water ran down her spikes. Anna came in and laughed because I was down on the bathroom floor in this beautiful Cedar Riverside apartment, kneeling over a tub, showering a hedgehog with a hose. It was insane and it was awesome. Will and Ariel are this crazy, talented, loving couple who are totally eccentric. And god knows I love that.
If you don't think that Petunia is the cutest fucking thing in the world, there is something horribly wrong with you.
Little Lamb thinks she's awfully cute.
Ariel in their home dance studio, dressed in her Bondage (Modern Dance costume, same diff)
The Dancers Dance
And the Crazy Loves
A Very Happy Life!
I think about that scene a lot. Cause, y'know, I'm packing a lot of heat beneath my leggings. A lot o' heat.
TRANNIES 4 EVA!
Because, in spite of the tears and exhaustion and uncertainty and sometimes loneliness, I have a very happy life.
A very happy, very busy life.
Friday: Work, Hootenany, Dance Band at the Hex
Saturday: Work, Bowling and Jigging and booze laced Shamrock shakes
Sunday: Work, Fringe rehearsal, P.O.S. at First Ave
Monday: Work, laundry (I'll finally wash my sheets, Mom!), block staged reading
Tuesday: Work, Cloud Cult at Electric Fetus, getting fucked up in the car, The Roots at First Ave
Wednesday: Sleep off a hang-over, Neil Diamond cover band with Taco
Thursday: Work, Staged Reading rehearsal
Friday: Work, Hootenany, some music somewhere
Saturday: Staged Reading rehearsal, revive my exhausted corpse with an hour of lit erotica and a bazillion gallons of that special Cliqout Club coffee drink
Sunday: Staged Reading rehearsal, Fringe rehearsal, James Hunter at The Fine Line
Monday: Staged Reading performance
Tuesday, I finally fall sleep for real and never wake up. Buttplug, you can take Rufus and Cornelius. Morgie, you can take 80's monkey. Badonks, you can take Carmine. Little Lamb, you can have Pretzel. Roomsie, you can have Weenie Pup. Taco, you can take Corky. Frenchie, the glorified dog toy, is to be sent home to Fanny so she can play with the squeak. I am to be buried with Kitty Cat Blanket and Sonny. I expect you all to take very good care of my stuffed animal family. Treat them as you would treat me, expect less urine. Oh yeah, Shaly, you can have my camera and my collection of lingerie (a kickass corset and one frilly heart number, with matching thong.)
Last night, after getting lost downtown, scammed in the parking lot & fucked up on the corner, George and I stood in back of the crowd at First Ave for TV on the Radio. Our eyes were closed for much of the show and we danced in our spots, with ourselves, swaying and jumping back and forth as they rocked out on stage. A friend offered me the ticket. I have two of their albums but never was a huge fan, though Staring at the Sun is one of my all time favorite songs to exercise to. So I said yes, I'll go, because rarely will I say no, I should stay home and get caught up on my sleep so I don't go into cardiac arrest. Like George said, they actually rocked out harder than I thought this band possible. And of course they played Staring at the Sun. It was the final song, a clubbed out version that had me mentally (and sort of actually) running in place. I was seriously moving my arms back and forth as if I was running faster than ever before. That's called dancing, kids. Jonesie style.
Tonight, I ate. An amazing Thai seafood soup and figs with chocolate covered almonds for dessert. Will and Ariel (a couple Holway Chipmunk knows through Zenon Dance) have this Cedar Riverside apartment that is huge, beautiful and totally one of my happy places. Knick-Knacks from around the world, corner to corner. Chipmunk and Little Lamb and I sat and ate this feast. Tonight, I sang. Ariel, after performing a few Lily Allen numbers as Will backed on the guitar, stuck in the karaoke CD. We stood up to the mic and sang Sonny & Cher and a little Janis and I put the words from Born to Run in when I couldn't remember the actual lyrics. Tonight, I bathed a hedgehog named Petunia. She's their pet. And she's the happiest hedgehog in the entire world. Will brought her out and started to bathe her (to make her poop, naturally) and then let me finish (not pooping, bathing.) Petunia would stick her little snout out and wiggle her raisin nose as the water ran down her spikes. Anna came in and laughed because I was down on the bathroom floor in this beautiful Cedar Riverside apartment, kneeling over a tub, showering a hedgehog with a hose. It was insane and it was awesome. Will and Ariel are this crazy, talented, loving couple who are totally eccentric. And god knows I love that.
If you don't think that Petunia is the cutest fucking thing in the world, there is something horribly wrong with you.
Little Lamb thinks she's awfully cute.
Ariel in their home dance studio, dressed in her Bondage (Modern Dance costume, same diff)
The Dancers Dance
And the Crazy Loves
A Very Happy Life!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
It's all really fun but I need a vacation.
Hey Jonesie, do you wanna come to my house party?
Yeah!
Hey Jonesie, do you wanna come out for a drink?
Yeah!
Hey Jonesie, do you want my extra TV on the Radio ticket, do you wanna come home for pascha or your dad's birthday, will you do my make-up, direct the first draft, dance, get caught up on 24, massage my back, see this show, pay this debt off, take this photo, write this story?
YEAH!
I'm not complaining at all. I'm just tired and still love it all too much. That's all.
Yeah!
Hey Jonesie, do you wanna come out for a drink?
Yeah!
Hey Jonesie, do you want my extra TV on the Radio ticket, do you wanna come home for pascha or your dad's birthday, will you do my make-up, direct the first draft, dance, get caught up on 24, massage my back, see this show, pay this debt off, take this photo, write this story?
YEAH!
I'm not complaining at all. I'm just tired and still love it all too much. That's all.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Pulling the plug on Terri Schiavo all over again
My Morning at The Department Store
As I was standing, arms crossed, staring at the suburbanite with The Hair who Heather was helping choose an eye shadow...
ME (in my head): God woman...your hair...it's awful...you obviously took time with it...it's huge...and holy shit that color and those roots...and my god how much hairspray do you have in it...of course your son is at a hockey tournament...you are about to drop $150 on make-up and it won't make a shit of a difference because your hair...you talk too damn much woman...and you say shit a lot...damn woman...you need a cut....bad...what the fuck time did you wake up to start that hair...damn your hair...huge...awful...
HEATHER: The taupe will really warm you up and looks great with blue eyes.
THE HAIR (looks directly at me): WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?!?! YOU LOOK HORRIFIED!
ME (uncrossing my arms in a panic and shaking my head): WHAT?!?! Oh. It's not YOU! It's my neutral face.
THE HAIR: That wasn't a neutral face.
ME (trying really hard to be overly apologetic): It is for me! It's just my face. I'm SORRY! Everyone thinks I'm upset when really I'm just staring off into space!
THE HAIR: Are you just having a really bad day? Seriously...that look!
HEATHER (meekly): It's just her look.
ME: No, I'm actually having a really GOOD day.
THE HAIR: Well I'd hate to see you on a really bad day.
ME (giggling nervously and hyperactively): Hahaha. Yeah.
The Hair caught my Terri Schiavo face. But I wasn't JUST Schiavo-ing it like I am wont to do at The Department Store. The Schiavo was mixed with hardcore hairspace judgement. Lethal Combination. Most of the time, you can really read what I'm thinking by looking at my face. I cannot tell a lie. I wish I could because I don't really want complete strangers to think ill of me. And customer usually like me! I've even been called pleasant and kind and fun! Please don't blame me. I am a vegetable who shats into a bag. I can't really control myself.
Two minutes later, I left, clocked out and drove away into the sunlight, blaring Mark Mallman as I peeled out of The Department Store parking lot.
Heather called me five minutes later.
HEATHER: Oh my god that woman was a fucking psycho.
ME: Yeah she wouldn't shut the fuck up about my face. It's MY face and it's ME!
HEATHER: Yeah, after you left she was all like "OH MY GOD IS SHE A NICE PERSON??!?!?!" and I was like "YEAH!" and she was like "THAT LOOK! GOD!!!" and I was like "It's just her expression. She's nice."
ME: IT'S MY FACE! Like c'mon woman. I mean, her hair was awful, but IT'S MY FACE! GOD DAMMIT I'M A NICE PERSON!
HEATHER: Her hair was awful.
Ahhhhh...The Department Store...you really feed my soul...through a long long tube that I can never escape from until one of us pulls the plug.
To add insult to facial injury, I just watched, for the first time, the DVD of my October stint into the world of Burlesque dancing. Oh god. Oh dear sweet merciful god. Maddie (whose pastie fell off in the middle of her Flashdance performance) and I sat on the couch, in the dark, huddled together, clutching each other as we roared with laughter and screamed in agony and felt our heart beats through our chest. Seriously I cannot BELIEVE that it is forever recorded in digital format. I, as a (not in real life) drunken Burlesque lassie named Tipsy St. Swingsteen, really made a huge booty asshole out of myself. I was all parts horrified, shocked, in awe and impressed that I was ever able to do those moves and take my top off in public. It was odd because, as I watched it, I sorta forgot it was me. And then remembered THIS IS ME, and watched, as what little shred of dignity I have had washed away in a sea of sticky liquor made from apple juice and a hairspace that only the gods could create. Or The Hair could create. CHECK OUT THIS FACE, LADY!
I would do it again in a heartbeat. I HEART TIPSY!
As I was standing, arms crossed, staring at the suburbanite with The Hair who Heather was helping choose an eye shadow...
ME (in my head): God woman...your hair...it's awful...you obviously took time with it...it's huge...and holy shit that color and those roots...and my god how much hairspray do you have in it...of course your son is at a hockey tournament...you are about to drop $150 on make-up and it won't make a shit of a difference because your hair...you talk too damn much woman...and you say shit a lot...damn woman...you need a cut....bad...what the fuck time did you wake up to start that hair...damn your hair...huge...awful...
HEATHER: The taupe will really warm you up and looks great with blue eyes.
THE HAIR (looks directly at me): WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?!?! YOU LOOK HORRIFIED!
ME (uncrossing my arms in a panic and shaking my head): WHAT?!?! Oh. It's not YOU! It's my neutral face.
THE HAIR: That wasn't a neutral face.
ME (trying really hard to be overly apologetic): It is for me! It's just my face. I'm SORRY! Everyone thinks I'm upset when really I'm just staring off into space!
THE HAIR: Are you just having a really bad day? Seriously...that look!
HEATHER (meekly): It's just her look.
ME: No, I'm actually having a really GOOD day.
THE HAIR: Well I'd hate to see you on a really bad day.
ME (giggling nervously and hyperactively): Hahaha. Yeah.
The Hair caught my Terri Schiavo face. But I wasn't JUST Schiavo-ing it like I am wont to do at The Department Store. The Schiavo was mixed with hardcore hairspace judgement. Lethal Combination. Most of the time, you can really read what I'm thinking by looking at my face. I cannot tell a lie. I wish I could because I don't really want complete strangers to think ill of me. And customer usually like me! I've even been called pleasant and kind and fun! Please don't blame me. I am a vegetable who shats into a bag. I can't really control myself.
Two minutes later, I left, clocked out and drove away into the sunlight, blaring Mark Mallman as I peeled out of The Department Store parking lot.
Heather called me five minutes later.
HEATHER: Oh my god that woman was a fucking psycho.
ME: Yeah she wouldn't shut the fuck up about my face. It's MY face and it's ME!
HEATHER: Yeah, after you left she was all like "OH MY GOD IS SHE A NICE PERSON??!?!?!" and I was like "YEAH!" and she was like "THAT LOOK! GOD!!!" and I was like "It's just her expression. She's nice."
ME: IT'S MY FACE! Like c'mon woman. I mean, her hair was awful, but IT'S MY FACE! GOD DAMMIT I'M A NICE PERSON!
HEATHER: Her hair was awful.
Ahhhhh...The Department Store...you really feed my soul...through a long long tube that I can never escape from until one of us pulls the plug.
To add insult to facial injury, I just watched, for the first time, the DVD of my October stint into the world of Burlesque dancing. Oh god. Oh dear sweet merciful god. Maddie (whose pastie fell off in the middle of her Flashdance performance) and I sat on the couch, in the dark, huddled together, clutching each other as we roared with laughter and screamed in agony and felt our heart beats through our chest. Seriously I cannot BELIEVE that it is forever recorded in digital format. I, as a (not in real life) drunken Burlesque lassie named Tipsy St. Swingsteen, really made a huge booty asshole out of myself. I was all parts horrified, shocked, in awe and impressed that I was ever able to do those moves and take my top off in public. It was odd because, as I watched it, I sorta forgot it was me. And then remembered THIS IS ME, and watched, as what little shred of dignity I have had washed away in a sea of sticky liquor made from apple juice and a hairspace that only the gods could create. Or The Hair could create. CHECK OUT THIS FACE, LADY!
I would do it again in a heartbeat. I HEART TIPSY!
Thursday, March 8, 2007
MOO CARDS EXTRAVAGANZA!
My Moo Cards came today.
They are so awesome, I almost had another seizure.
Seriously...I walked through the door from a VERY long day at work (little old ladies are VERY persnickety about their coral lipsticks,) photography class, a walk to Saint Sabrina's where they told me the piercing was INDEED healing and NOT infecting, and a three and a half hour long massage session with Kara (sweet sweet jesus)...and found a big white envelope on our mail couch...MY MOO CARDS HAD ARRIVED!!!!!!
Moo Cards are http://www.moo.com/flickr/
MY MOO CARDS!
(The picture is shatty but you get the idea...if you click on it you get a closer look...just like a gyno.)
RollerGirl Moo Cards! Riverside Market Street Art Moo Cards! Frozen Minneapolis Skyline Moo Cards! Local Music Moo Cards! National Music Moo Cards! Portugal Moo Cards!
Uhhh...the angel one is a neat picture in reality and the only reason I turned it into a moo card (with not a great result) was because I thought my parents or grandparents or family friends from the church I grew up in would enjoy it...but then I realized I don't really want them to know about this blog where I regularly talk about my drunken escapades and poop jokes. Shame shame. Fly away angel.
They have my name, email, city, blog link and the phrase "I'm obsessed. SERIOUSLY!" which is a little creepy in retrospect but whatever.
These are the world's greatest business cards (because business cards are so in demand for my line of gallivanting.)
THESE ARE SO RAD!
Anybody want one? Wanna trade if you are a fellow Moo Carder? You're getting one no matter what your answer is.
Also, I can't really get over the fact that, one year, for Halloween I dressed like this:
Nice camel toe, Jones.
I need to get away and take a mini-break to Missouri. It's that part of winter when far too many things are beginning to irritate me, upset me or anger me. I need Mama and Papa's house, with Fanny the Baby Girl Pup, Papa's homemade bread, adventures in Kansas City with Mama, the bedroom I grew up in, Miami Ink marathons on cable, and and all night cheesy movie gossip fests with my Morgie (while her husband sleeps in the guest room.) I'm really homesick.
Although...happy thoughts...
I'm SO excited for Friday:
-bang trim
-chiropractor visit
-work out
-Electric Fetus for Tuesday releases pick up (SON VOLT & ARCADE FIRE, YAY!...and maybe more, YAY!)
-Hootenany
-Badonks Birthday dinner and the Caribbean Jerked chicken from Chino Latino's (Do Me, Plantains)
-Slipper party at Kevin & Tony's
Man, I love tax refunds. Man, I love days off. Man, I love my family. MAN, I LOVE MY MOO CARDS!
Love,
Jonesie.
They are so awesome, I almost had another seizure.
Seriously...I walked through the door from a VERY long day at work (little old ladies are VERY persnickety about their coral lipsticks,) photography class, a walk to Saint Sabrina's where they told me the piercing was INDEED healing and NOT infecting, and a three and a half hour long massage session with Kara (sweet sweet jesus)...and found a big white envelope on our mail couch...MY MOO CARDS HAD ARRIVED!!!!!!
Moo Cards are http://www.moo.com/flickr/
MY MOO CARDS!
(The picture is shatty but you get the idea...if you click on it you get a closer look...just like a gyno.)
RollerGirl Moo Cards! Riverside Market Street Art Moo Cards! Frozen Minneapolis Skyline Moo Cards! Local Music Moo Cards! National Music Moo Cards! Portugal Moo Cards!
Uhhh...the angel one is a neat picture in reality and the only reason I turned it into a moo card (with not a great result) was because I thought my parents or grandparents or family friends from the church I grew up in would enjoy it...but then I realized I don't really want them to know about this blog where I regularly talk about my drunken escapades and poop jokes. Shame shame. Fly away angel.
They have my name, email, city, blog link and the phrase "I'm obsessed. SERIOUSLY!" which is a little creepy in retrospect but whatever.
These are the world's greatest business cards (because business cards are so in demand for my line of gallivanting.)
THESE ARE SO RAD!
Anybody want one? Wanna trade if you are a fellow Moo Carder? You're getting one no matter what your answer is.
Also, I can't really get over the fact that, one year, for Halloween I dressed like this:
Nice camel toe, Jones.
I need to get away and take a mini-break to Missouri. It's that part of winter when far too many things are beginning to irritate me, upset me or anger me. I need Mama and Papa's house, with Fanny the Baby Girl Pup, Papa's homemade bread, adventures in Kansas City with Mama, the bedroom I grew up in, Miami Ink marathons on cable, and and all night cheesy movie gossip fests with my Morgie (while her husband sleeps in the guest room.) I'm really homesick.
Although...happy thoughts...
I'm SO excited for Friday:
-bang trim
-chiropractor visit
-work out
-Electric Fetus for Tuesday releases pick up (SON VOLT & ARCADE FIRE, YAY!...and maybe more, YAY!)
-Hootenany
-Badonks Birthday dinner and the Caribbean Jerked chicken from Chino Latino's (Do Me, Plantains)
-Slipper party at Kevin & Tony's
Man, I love tax refunds. Man, I love days off. Man, I love my family. MAN, I LOVE MY MOO CARDS!
Love,
Jonesie.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Foodgasm
Last night, after a kickass performance by MN RollerGirls (three fist fights!) and a ridiculous house party, I stayed up far too late to create THIS masterpiece...a baby picture of me...the girl I was and the woman I would become...God, I'm SO deep.
(That is an image of Bruce's actual guitar...I took it last night after he used it on me during one of our sessions of hot hot loving.)
This afternoon, I experienced brunch at Hell's Kitchen on 89 South 10th Street today. Balls. Big, glorious, fertile (but not for a good ten years) balls.
http://www.hellskitcheninc.com/
This has to go down as one of the top three meals I've had at a restaurant (in Minnesota.) TOP THREE! MAYBE EVEN BEST (though I still love you Caribbean Jerked Chicken from Chino Latino!) Everything was so fresh and flavorful. Every bite a testament to my ability to not start touching myself in public when excited. I was so happy when I left that I immediately called a few people who I knew would appreciate a fine, fine meal as much as I.
Seriously, I love good food: eating it, caressing it, taking pictures of it, talking about it, rubbing it on my body as I sing karaoke.
Badonks and I sat at the table, enjoying our french roast coffee, as the sun burst through the giant window and led us forward, into the light.
What I feasted on (words taken from the Hell's Kitchen menu):
Breakfast Bruschetta
Our dense walnut bread is brushed with homemade lemon oil and toasted, then topped with sweetened mascarpone cheese and assorted fresh, seasonal berries $6.95
The Classic All-American Breakfast
Two premium large eggs, toast, Rosti potatoes (freshly-grated potatoes grilled with sweet cream butter, bacon, sweet onions, chives and scallions), and choice of Thick Sliced Smoked Bacon, Hell’s Kitchen Maple Glazed Bison Sausage, or our Slab of Grilled Pit Ham $9.95
The waitress (who looked like a goth version of this Greek girl I know) also brought out homemade peanut butter (holy FUCK), homemade ketchup, homemade blood orange marmalade & homemade blackberry marmalade. I homemade all over the place.
I chose to have my eggs sunny side up and went with the maple glazed bison sausage. After that meal, for a million dollars, I would fuck a bison.
When I called my mom, I told her "you went to church and I went to Hell."
I was saved in the sunny pits of Hell's Kitchen. Further redemption came in the form of the toilet and a sweet session on the track, rowing machine & elliptical. Everything was so worth it.
Yum motherfucking yum yum.
In other news, Bruce Springsteen's reinvention of Ennio Morricone's "Once Upon a Time In the West" is completely beautiful badass.
"The Mission" is one of my all time favorite soundtracks EVER...before music made me really cry, "The Mission" score conjured some serious tears. The master rock 'n roller's guitar work over the master composer's score = MUSICGASM!
(That is an image of Bruce's actual guitar...I took it last night after he used it on me during one of our sessions of hot hot loving.)
This afternoon, I experienced brunch at Hell's Kitchen on 89 South 10th Street today. Balls. Big, glorious, fertile (but not for a good ten years) balls.
http://www.hellskitcheninc.com/
This has to go down as one of the top three meals I've had at a restaurant (in Minnesota.) TOP THREE! MAYBE EVEN BEST (though I still love you Caribbean Jerked Chicken from Chino Latino!) Everything was so fresh and flavorful. Every bite a testament to my ability to not start touching myself in public when excited. I was so happy when I left that I immediately called a few people who I knew would appreciate a fine, fine meal as much as I.
Seriously, I love good food: eating it, caressing it, taking pictures of it, talking about it, rubbing it on my body as I sing karaoke.
Badonks and I sat at the table, enjoying our french roast coffee, as the sun burst through the giant window and led us forward, into the light.
What I feasted on (words taken from the Hell's Kitchen menu):
Breakfast Bruschetta
Our dense walnut bread is brushed with homemade lemon oil and toasted, then topped with sweetened mascarpone cheese and assorted fresh, seasonal berries $6.95
The Classic All-American Breakfast
Two premium large eggs, toast, Rosti potatoes (freshly-grated potatoes grilled with sweet cream butter, bacon, sweet onions, chives and scallions), and choice of Thick Sliced Smoked Bacon, Hell’s Kitchen Maple Glazed Bison Sausage, or our Slab of Grilled Pit Ham $9.95
The waitress (who looked like a goth version of this Greek girl I know) also brought out homemade peanut butter (holy FUCK), homemade ketchup, homemade blood orange marmalade & homemade blackberry marmalade. I homemade all over the place.
I chose to have my eggs sunny side up and went with the maple glazed bison sausage. After that meal, for a million dollars, I would fuck a bison.
When I called my mom, I told her "you went to church and I went to Hell."
I was saved in the sunny pits of Hell's Kitchen. Further redemption came in the form of the toilet and a sweet session on the track, rowing machine & elliptical. Everything was so worth it.
Yum motherfucking yum yum.
In other news, Bruce Springsteen's reinvention of Ennio Morricone's "Once Upon a Time In the West" is completely beautiful badass.
"The Mission" is one of my all time favorite soundtracks EVER...before music made me really cry, "The Mission" score conjured some serious tears. The master rock 'n roller's guitar work over the master composer's score = MUSICGASM!
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Hell Hath Frozen Over
The Department Store closed early (after much corporate whorish debate, I'm sure) because of the horridly wonderful weather conditions.
It's absolute shit outside. Beautiful white fluffy shit. Apparantely, according to the fearmongers on the news, there has not been a snow like this since 1995.
My mom was right. There is a god.
Badonks and I trekked through this to get Afghani pizza. Holy balls, I love living on Central Ave.
It's absolute shit outside. Beautiful white fluffy shit. Apparantely, according to the fearmongers on the news, there has not been a snow like this since 1995.
My mom was right. There is a god.
Badonks and I trekked through this to get Afghani pizza. Holy balls, I love living on Central Ave.
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