Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Bruce Works It Out

"Millworker" by James Taylor from the musical "Working"

I was obsessed with this song in highschool. Not really James Taylor's particular version, though I was/is a fan of his, but just the song in general. I never have had a lot of faith in my singing abilities (for good reason...good god good reasons) but I had a voice teacher in highschool who knew, because I wasn't tone deaf...just tone challenged, that I could do it. For myself and very few other people, I did. And I LOVED singing this song.

And I LOVE this particular small highschool obsession was an indication of the tsunami that followed.

(PS I do indeed think it's fucking lame that they blanked out the phrase "goddamn awful." Uhhhhh...thanks lptv.)

Bruce Springsteen will always remain a prevalent artist (in my mind...and many many others out there) because he is willing to reinvent himself. His voice changes, it gets older, and he maybe can't sing those powerhouse ballads that made him famous with the same buoyancy he once did. So he writes and/or performs a different type of song. And he does it with as much strengh and depth as he ever did, but it sounds a bit more gravelly. Often times, I think that gravelly translates to a richness that only comes with age. It sounds as if he has really experienced what he sings about. Just listen to that 2:42 point on...C'MON!...DON'T YOU SEE IT?!?!? It's like he almost starts sobbing from the weight. (Or is that me?) Plus, he plays the SHIT out of that harmonica.

Then again, I also believe Bruce has more rock n' roll arena shows left in him. I mean, Christ, he's got the body of really hot, taut manboy and, not too long ago, flipped upside down on the mic stand like all those agile pole dancers. And The Seeger Sessions were a raucous good time that still left us with those three hour concerts he's infamous for. I don't know if the entire E Street Band has it left in them (keep on trucking, Clarence) but there has to be at least one more tour with all the family. There just HAS to be.

What I've learned in my almost six year obsession is that Bruce will play whatever the fuck he feels like playing, be it an all out rock n' roll "Born to Run" for an entire stadium of people in Queens to a hushed version of "Incident on 57th Street" in a smallish theatre in Chicago. A version that left me actually grasping at my heart. And I will listen. Maybe it means I've drunk the kool-aid. I don't care. Because it tastes like the sweet sweet nectar of KICKASS!

I mean, I'm just saying. He has still got the soul. That's my tribute.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

How to Experience Awkward Awareness Day

I'm gonna tell you what's real awkward.

Running into a guy that blew you off two years ago. You went out a couple times. You got a little touchy touchy feely feely. He said he'd call when he got back from the North. And you never heard from him again.

So tonight you walk into a bar to hear a band you really love. One of the openers is a band he really loves. You remember that. Wouldn't it be funny if you saw him at the bar? You think that. You are standing there watching that band he really loves and all of a sudden he walks by. You don't say anything but your roommate will grab your arm because even she knows it's him. You have no idea if he really saw you. Hopefully cause you're dressed in a really cute, colorful outfit. And your hair looks good. So maybe he did and he felt awkward, too. Cause it's really not all that funny.

Whatever, it was a long time ago and, even though you liked him, he obviously didn't like you enough. Cause, you know, when he said "I'll call you when I get back from Duluth" what he actually meant was "Duluth is where I'm going to die." You deserved to be really liked.

But you really are over it. Cause it was two dates and you aren't psychotic. You're just a little awkward.

Drinks & Dinner at Chino Latino with your Roommate Badonkles circa Pre Awkward

These Modern Socks at The Uptown Bar circa Awkward

And now I'm going to enlighten you with four realities to help you overcome the awkwardness:

1) The New Yorker is not appropriate bathroom reading material. Cause you'll finish up and then all of a sudden it will be twenty minutes later and you are still sitting on the shitter reading the David Sedaris article. US Weekly is the perfect bathroom reading material because short snipets about just how much of a loser Kevin Federline is never get old. Never. Plus they have so many bright shiny pictures of Angelina Jolie looking distressed over the fact that she is losing touch of her bitch/her husband.

2) The Birchwood Cafe is a really peaceful place. And Chipmunk is a really cool person (though she thinks it looks like creepy muthafucka Billy from Six Feet Under is gonna pop through that window in this picture.) And that Ghandi's alright, too.

3) Darren Jackson of Kid Dakota is amazing (as is the drummer, Ian Prince, but Darren is the institution...much like Raven Simone is the institution of Cheetah Girls.) Though the band conjurs a bitter memory, it's beautiful and the Star Song will always make you cry.

Wednesday Night at The Triple Rock Social Club

4) You apparently live in a harem.

Who knew?

Monday, January 22, 2007

How are you, Chuck? OUTSTANDING!

I figured something out today.

I like to be in control.

Of every possible situation in my life. the throes of passion.

But even then I get to choose who throes me.

I walked into work today to do the closing shift at The Department Store (now to be called TDS) and ran into a coworker by the restroom. I asked her how the day had been. She replied with "it's a world of suck."

I asked her why and she ominously proclaimed that it shall all be explained once I get to my counter.

There has been a new TDS development. Whenever we answer the phone, we have to say...

"It's an OUTSTANDING day at TDS! How may I help you?"


Are you serious?

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

I simultaneously threw up my breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and shit out my two mugs full of Birchwood Blend french press. Imagined barf n' shit is never a good way to start a work day.

It's an OUTSTANDING day at TDS!?!?!?!?!?!??!!?!?!??!!??!??!?!

They want to turn us into robots where literally the customer could do all of the following during a single transaction:

1) return a three quarter empty jar of moisturizer because it didn't make her look like she was eight years old again
2) take a shit on the floor
3) smear SUCKA! on the mirrors with the shit
4) howl like a monkey while calling us shallow cunts.

And she could dance herself out the automatic doors, rubbing her crotch with fistfuls of exchanged money, with ne'er a glance from management or security.

We would just have to smile politely, tell them her behavior was OUTSTANDING because apparently WE'RE NEVER ALSO ALLOWED TO SAY NO TO A CUSTOMER!

Never say no.

Rapists abound applaud TDS' newest developments.

To TDS, their employees are nothing but expendable robots who could be replaced because we don't like to force people to open credit cards (that have a 26% interest rate) after they've already said no (twice) and we don't like to answer the phones sounding like we run a children's television show on PBS hosted by my insipid, uber conservative, hyper Christian Uncle.


I really couldn't figure out why this whole "Outstanding!" thing bothered me so much until I realized that it makes me incredibly embarrassed.

Which is rich coming from this girl.

BUT I realized that I like to be IN CONTROL of embarrassing situations!


Or here...

Here even...

All at work. All looking like an asshole. AN ASSHOLE BY CHOICE!

All my coworkers made fun of Outstanding! All day. We prank called each other just to point and laugh as we all tried to suck down our pride to answer the phone sounding like a douche-bot. My friend Brian said it was disgusting. My dad said "oh fucking shit" and then laughed at me.

It just sounds really really stupid. Say it out loud. "It's an outstanding day at TDS. This is [insert name] at [insert department.] How can I help you?" Do you really want to say that? Can you say that without sounding lame? Or laughing at yourself? On the other you really want to sit there and listen to a salesperson say it? What if you have to be transferred from Guest Services to a certain department? Because THEN you would have to sit there and listen to that shit TWICE?

I want to be proud of what I do. I'm not. Most of the time this doesn't really bother me because I live a very rich life outside of work. I have music. I have art. I have theatre. I'm not a starving orphan in Darfur. I'm a middle class white girl who collects too many trinkets and likes to eat food with a lot of taste and texture.

Sometimes, I really hate saying that I only work in retail for cosmetics at TDS and I'm not working on a show right now. It's that shitty, judgmental part of my personality coming out to jerk off on the ridiculous expectations I have of myself. It’s just that…I spend 35 hours of week in a mall. That's the majority of my waking week. That sucks. I've spent more time in a mall this past year then I have my entire life combined. That's scary. And sad. I hate malls.

The good news is when I move to New York in September, I'm TOTALLY gonna be a part time dog walker. With a fistful of leashes, pride means nothing and joy comes in the form of a personable pup with short legs.

I still think make-up is fun. I love my bright red lipstick and swishy dark brown eyeliner. I love dressing up and taking my time to look good. I love doing make-up for my friends, especially for my friends in a band or when my friends get married.

It's just that...I loved Bobbi Brown for so long and always wanted to work for her line. Just like that night I worked at First Ave, I've gotten the make-up thing out of my system and am ready to move on. To what? I don't know right now.

I know...I get paid a good amount of non-commissioned money (meaning a very high base pay for retail) to play with make-up all day and shoot the shit with my mostly awesome coworkers. But even that gets really old. Because, in reality, the management is not outstanding. Standing around all day bored is not outstanding. TDS is not outstanding. Though part of me really does believe in Bobbi Brown Cosmetics and its awesomeness in the world of make-up, it's not really all that outstanding. Not for me.

I actually pulled a Junior High moment today when I read the Uncle Tupelo liner notes at work. How I got away with it? I hid it behind the Bobbi Brown Cosmetics newsletter, like it was Seventeen magazine behind my Science book or something. I still managed to reach my desired selling goal, clean, take out the garbage, and close properly. SO EAT IT! Sweet sweetness.

I just want to say "I'm a..." and be excited and proud about that. I don't have an answer for the "..." yet.

I'm done.

With one final point...

There's a scene in Six Feet Under, Season Two, when Ruth the mom is talking to Claire's guidance counselor. He says that Claire is acting that way because she just wants a meaningful life. "Doesn't everyone," Ruth asks. He says, "you'd be surprised."

I can't stop thinking about that one scene I saw two weeks ago. What's my meaningful life?

Luckily...I stopped caring about the Outstanding! shit for about two moments when I was sitting out on a bench on a break. I was reading Chuck Klosterman's "Sex, Drugs, and Coca Puffs*" when I got to the chapter about Pam Anderson being the modern day equivalent to Marilyn Monroe (he makes a valid, albeit insane, point.) As I sat there sipping my giant mall employee sized Diet Coke and savoring my mint chocolate cookie from Mrs. Fields (MALLTASTIC!), I read this paragraph in which he refers to the Pam Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape...

"My eyes have drifted back to my TV just now, and I spent a few moments looking at Tommy Lee's penis. I realize this is no brilliant insight, but Tommy Lee's genitalia is stupidly huge. In the scene I'm watching right now, he appears to be beating his penis against the steering wheel of a boat. It's oddly reassuring. In fact, it's making me think about Joe DiMaggio again: DiMaggio used his 36-inch, 36-ounce bat to hit safely in fifty-six straight games, and Tommy used his 10-inch, 13-ounce bat to hit Heather Locklear, BOBBI BROWN, and the single-most important woman of our times."

BOBBI BROWN! What the FUCK!?!?!??!!!

I sat there, shocked and wondering...Who the FUCK could he mean? Was it a typo? Did Chuck actually mean Bobby Brown (as in Whitney Houston's husband)? I mean, I know he's not gay but I wouldn't put it past Tommy Lee to take his baseball bat dick out of his leather pants and slap Bobby Brown with it. But that's not what Chuck means. It couldn't be. I know it. Dude...did MY Bobbi Brown, as in my in spite of everything cosmetics leader, actually date Tommy Lee back in the day or something? I thought about it for a moment. There's no fucking way. Because she's little miss natural mother of three married to some rich dude in a big house on the shore and I'm pretty sure he's big mister nasty who fucks a lot of holes AROUND the shore, be it woman, goat, or canned cranberry sauce. So it had to be some sort of typo. But then I couldn't let it go. It was just too TOO good.

The scene played out in my head.

This man....

…would take out his horse cock to hit this woman.

I was imagining what kind of kinky alterna-sex Tommy Lee and Bobbi Brown would have that involved a lot of dick choreography. Sex that was simultaneously skanky and wholesome, a melding of the two worlds. For some reason, doggie style kept coming into my head. This, I could JUST NOT figure out.

I was tripping on my daydream.

I called my roommate and she looked it up on google. We discovered that Chuck ACTUALLY meant this woman...

As in BobbiE Brown from Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video.

It all makes sense now.

It was indeed a typo.

A wonderful, personally significant, ridiculous, perverse typo.

After work, I got in my car, turned up my radio up to blare Uncle Tupelo’s “No Depression,” audibly shuddered to rid myself of TDS nast and peeled the fuck out of that mall.


Saturday, January 20, 2007

Billy, You Are My Hero

Last night, I went with some friends to see "Pan's Labyrinth." Whether or not the special effects, costumes and make-up were totally badass and scream inducing-ly disgusting is not important (they were.) Whether or not I enjoyed my experience of seeing this movie on the big screen is not important (I did.) What's important is actually what happened BEFORE the movie even started. The sold-out crowd was hell and I stood in that line for a good hour, during a Minnesota winter's night, to get inside. There was a man behind me (who held the fucking door open during the Minnesota winter's night), watching some animation on his i-pod. I judged this man because we were in a public place, he was standing with some lady friend, we were about to go watch some animation/hardcore cgi technology, and he couldn't seperate himself FROM his animation and technology for one moment. But then...when I came home tonight I checked my email while sitting on the shitter, so really, who am I to judge?

The crowd was hell blahblahblahblah. The bitch who sat behind me wouldn't shut-up during the whole movie blahblahblahblah. I totally teared up during the preview for "The Namesake" blahblahblahblah. But none of this matters...none of this EVEN matters...BECAUSE of who came out to introduce "Pan's Labyrinth."

Doug Jones

Yeah...the name didn't ring a bell with me. In the beginning, when he first came onto the stage in front of the screen, it just annoyed the shit out of me because it was already a half hour after the movie was supposed to start, I was still cold and that bitch behind me was beginning to irritate me. But then Doug Jones said he was playing the faun in tonight's movie so I thought that was pretty cool. BUT THEN Doug Jones said what we might remember him from: Hellboy ( OR BILLY BUTCHERSON FROM HOCUS POCUS!!!!!

When he proclaimed that absolute awesomeness, I made this strange OOOO-AH yelp like Al Pacino circa "Scent of a Woman" was getting fingered in the bungholeular area. And then I sorta started clapping and rocking in my seat, and Matt looks over at me in almost-mock embarrassment and lectures, "Alexa, we are in public."


Okay, now I feel the necessity to make a disclaimer. Hocus Pocus is not anywhere near my favorite movie of all time. I recognize it's early 90's lameness and ridiculousness and horrible script-ness. BUT I watched this movie every year on Halloween, for several years, even to the point of actually purchasing it when it was checked out at Blockbuster. So yes, I own Hocus Pocus. Yes, it's actually in my current movie collection up here in Minneapolis. Yes, I've watched it within the past two years. Yes, the nancy boy lead in it refers to boobs as "yabbos." Yes, besides starring Sarah Jessica Parker, Bette Midler and Kathy Najimy, it ALSO stars a young Thora Birch, "pre-boobs" as this friend of a friend referred to tonight upon hearing of my celeb sighting. YES THIS MOVIE ALSO SOMEHOW (quasi) ROCKS IN MY MIND!

Ohhhh...what a night. I've seen Doug Jones do the Billy Butcherson dance IN THE FLESH. Who else can actually say that?

Pre-awesome in my apartment

My Roommate Jim's Dinner


Mattie playing Bruce's "Land of Hope & Dream's"

It was a good night. Magical, shall we say.

In other news, Morgie called me today because she clogged her toilet with "a massive poo." She called me because she had thought of me when she clogged her toilet with this massive poo. That's friendship, people. Let's just say it reminded her of a time...or two...or three...when I clogged HER toilet in bygone days. Tonight, on the bus, I saw some guy, who had to have been under sixty years old, carrying a bag of adult diapers. I just sat there in the seat behind him, staring at the back of his head and too-rosy-to-be-sober cheeks, thinking that I now know this guy probably shits in his pants uncontrollably (or now wouldn't THAT be an interesting turn of events?!?!) What does THIS guy know about ME?!?!? Nothing. Life really is a slippery slope of shit. Then I realized I had been thinking far too long about HIS bowel movements and started thinking of...

It was a good night. Massive, shall we say.

Friday, January 19, 2007

I am a deaf girlshund named Vinny.

Doppleganger-ness is a precious connection. There are best friends. There are lovers (I hate that word's too fucking 17th century sappy...and it reminds me of the erotica I read in Junior High...Lady Chatterly's Lover and The Story of O defined my extraordinarily awkward adolescent years.) And there are dopplegangers. They are you in a different generation (Tabatha from New Hampshire), in a different country (Laura from Barcelona), in a different species (Vinny from Tucson.)

Interspecial Connection: Alexa Jones & Vinny Babarino.

Vinny Babarino is one of the stars in the upcoming documentary blockbuster-in-my-mind "Wiener Takes All." He's me in wiener dog form. And here's why...

Vinny's Bio from my current porn site :

Vinny Babarino Aman
Home: Tucson, AZ
DOB: 5/8/04
Coat: Tan Smooth
Height: 16 inches , Length: 24 inches
Weight: 19 lbs

Vinny's a real challenger for the championship - he packs a jaw-dropping acceleration which leaves his competition eating dust. Unfortunately he's got the mental focus of Mr. Magoo, and at races, he's very easily distracted. Can Vinny pay attention long enough to make it to the Wiener Nationals? Coach Paul Aman can only hope..."

Mental focus of Mr. Magoo...very easily distracted...jaw-dropping...wiener...eating...IT'S ME!

"Explosive speed + zero attention span = wild card. He has what it takes - if he can concentrate..."

Vinny, we are brethren. We are one.

I've loved wiener dogs dearly since eighth grade when I actually uttered the phrase "I can't decide which dog I'll someday own, a wiener dog or a dachshund, because both of those breeds are really cute." Oh how far I've come in knowledge of the dachshund...But at the time my family had a terrier who had chronic yeast infections, so we didn't need another in-door dog, and then I went away to college, and then I moved out on my own. And, because of the wee bit of time I actually spend at home, it would be absolutely unfair for any dog to be in my care. Because it's pretty damn unfair for ME to be in my care right now.

As a whole, I relate to wiener dogs because they are ridiculous looking, quasi-ADD-ridden, hyper little beasts, with so much personality that at the same time you love them so dearly, you also want to stomp their skull in. Check this gem out and pay special attention to the 2:17 on mark...


Seriously...that little shit is HILARIOUS! (Is it wrong that I teared up from laughing so hard?) He's so lost and wants so badly to please. I can see that desire and in his little eyes. I can see it because I see it so well within myself. But the little turd also seems slightly retarded. And when I was a wee babe, the doctors DID have to give me a CAT scan because I had a big head and couldn't walk. So whatever...I just relate.

(Sidenote: I went to the Kansas City Wiener Dog Races with Morgie/Imaginary Sea a few years ago. And there were that many mullets and camel-toes. It's fucking Missouri. And it's Euphoria. I laughed so hard that I wept. And there was a giant room FULL of wiener dogs. I just stood there, in my turquoise button down shirt that was covered in art deco wiener dogs, and soaked in the joy.)

Oh Vinny, someday we'll make it, little buddy. You and I, we'll show the world what we can do. We'll run and we'll yell and oh look a crumb.

Last night, Vinny took an excursion to First Ave for Best New Bands of '06. Vinny had two enormous bottles of Red Stripe. Vinny got very drunk off of said Red Stripes. Vinny can count the number of times on one hand he has gotten drunk off of beer. Vinny loved Maria Isa and The Alarmists. Vinny is having trouble learning how to use the amazing new Canon Rebel XT in lowlight/concert situations.

Vinny also tried to figure out his new camera while sitting on the toilet at First Ave, which is, though he stayed within the realm of his own stall and the view of downtown Minneapolis out the stall window, still creepy on so many levels.

Then Vinny made a quasi-asshole out of himself.

Vinny had conversation with a similarly drunken David de Young of

Vinny, very excited that David recognized him because Vinny respects David and all his work for Minnesota local music so very much, shook hands with him. David said something. Vinny agreed. David said something else. Vinny laughed and agreed again. This happened between David and Vinny about five more times. Then David left and Vinny turned to his friends and said...

"I have no idea what he just said to me."

"Seriously what? You couldn't hear"

"Yeah I just pretended to hear because I felt like a dumbass that I couldn't hear a fucking word."

"Man...I wonder what he said."

"I know," Vinny barked.

Here's the deal...Vinny wears ear plugs to most of the shows he goes to but still has really bad hearing when there is so much distraction and loud background noise. know...something shiny goes by and Vinny has too look. A fucking rock band jams out behind him and Vinny can't hear shit. Vinny wasn't about to play the what...What...WHAT game with David deYoung. But's actually been bugging Vinny...


It could have been anything from "I remember you from that Dance Band show where that strung out asshole cracked his head open and blood started pouring out" to "Vinny, here's what you should do with your life. You should..." to "I just shit my pants and it smells really bad."

Sigh...Vinny will never know.


Our pals really do love us in spite of ourselves…

I know all this because Vinny told me. In my daydream, we chat daily as he cuddles up against me and naps in the nook of my tummy. Vinny and I, the distracted team that has all the potentional in the world, treasure our moments when we can truly relax. Goodnight and sweet doggie dreams.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Bruce taught me that a WIENER TAKES ALL!

Five and a half years ago, I was sitting on a hotel bed in Mount Vernon, Missouri with my mom, my uncle and aunt. I was a chubby twenty year old eating my McDonald's yogurt parfait, bored and probably still hungry. There’s nothing to do in Mount Vernon except eat your delicious chicken beak with cow anus burger and watch cable. And we did just that. Flipping through stations on that Friday night in June of 2001, I landed on HBO. It was some old guy singing in Madison Square Garden. I started to flip to the next station when my mom and uncle screamed at me to stop, that Bruce Springsteen was supposed to be incredible live, and there was nothing else on anyways. I started fruitlessly whining cause I didn’t want to hear some old guy sing Born in the USA. I shut up about thirty seconds later when this old guy sang this song about this Haitian immigrant who had been needlessly shot by the police forty one times in New York City. I started crying. My family didn’t notice me but I couldn’t forget it…that next day, the entire summer away in camp at Interlochen, and the rest of my life.

That’s not an exaggeration. What if I had never landed on HBO? Because right now I’m staring at my wall of Bruce with a framed collage that holds my thirteen Bruce concert tickets from five different states, next to my closet that has five different Bruce concert shirts, next to my bookshelves that hold all the current and many back issues of Backstreets fanzine, eight different Bruce books and about three hundred different Bruce bootlegs. And people I only knew for a bit of time say, “I heard this song, I thought of you.” And my friends and family still say, “I hear this song, I think of you.” And it’s all facing the dresser that holds a box of dozens/hundreds of concert tickets from everyone to Marah to Social Distortion to Kid Dakota to Neil Diamond. Before that day, I had been to two concerts I can remember, one with my Girl Scout troop in Middle School and one with my girls in High School. And I can say I love all this and I love you.

It's my tale as old as time, my I-just-"peed"-out-my-vajayjay-from-screaming-too-hard karaoke song as old as rhyme.

Five and a half years later on this very afternoon, I was standing on the street corner of Central and Lowry, waiting for the bus, talking on my cell, staring at the row of Mexicans/Mexican dollar stores and the weird trophy shop, trying not to freeze my assstillasbigasamotherfucker off. My car is dead. In four days, I'll be short $500 but have my Brucie Honda back. If the boy from Suck-Yo-Dick-For-A-Dolla Detroit was right, and a blowjob from a liquor store parking lot hooker really do just cost one hundred pennies, then maybe after several hours of man-ual labor, I could have the beginnings of my I'm-moving-to-New-York-by-September savings back. But I'm not a prostitute, not yet at least...mentally/emotionally/verbally, yes...but physically, not even close. Until Brucie Honda will be back, my jaw will be in working order, and there will be zero dollars in my savings.

Anyway, I was talking to Heather on my cell about lame department store employment drama when two men approached wearing black suits. I looked down at their lapels and noticed their matching nametags: Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Mother. Fucker.

"Ma'am, we know you are on the phone right now but we have an important message for you."

Once, my uncle, when he realized it was Jehovah's Witnesses who had rang the bell, took off his pants and answered the front door.

Standing on Central and Lowry in the ten-degree heat, I didn't have that luxury. Standing in my comfy sweatshirt, my comfy skirt, my comfy underwear, my comfy boots, my comfy coat, I didn't have that courage. So I merely raised my pointer finger in a "one moment" motion, turned my back to the men in black and said "Heather, don't you dare hang up the phone right now."

She didn't. Even if she had, I would have pretended like she hadn't and continued to talk on the phone, to no one on the other line. They crossed the street, I hung up the phone, took out my ipod, turned it almost all the way up, stuck my frozen fingers in my pockets and closed my eyes. The bus came, I got on, continued to listen. The bus stopped at the mall, I continued to listen. Some old man scared the shit out of me on my walk to the entrance, and for a moment, I stopped listening. He pulled me out of my Terri Schiavo zone. But just for that moment. Cause all the way up to my damn cosmetics counter, I continued to listen.

My mom said I was an island at my first Springsteen show a year after my Madison Square tv moment.

My morning music of choice...

I don't need any Jehovah's witnesses to save me when I have this in my life.

Actually, I just realized I don't have bus money for tomorrow morning. Maybe I'll run into my Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints friends again. So maybe I do need to have a little "talk" with those two after all. Apparently, that's all a lady needs to get to her reputable place of employment when bjs only cost a dollar. SWEET! I'M SAVED!

If that’s not all reason enough for me not to slide deep into seasonal depression, not only do I have the upcoming season of 24 to be excited about, but APPARENTLY, later in the spring of 2007, there’s a film coming out titled “WIENER TAKES ALL,” the DOGumentary that “follows two years in the life of the world of professional wiener dogs. From the wiener dog racing circuit, to the Westminster Kennel Club Show, to the fields and tunnels of Texas, "Wiener Takes All" examines the entertaining, educational, and sometimes controversial world of competitive dachshunds.”

Otherwise known as Alexa’s Porn.

Sweet sweet Jehovahed Jesus, there’s so much to live for. So very very much.

It’s good to be back, blogspot.