Revive Me

I'm knee deep in three different lives right now. Music & Photography, Theatre, That Job. Stressed, tired and haggard. Driving home at 3am listening to Billy Bragg or Ryan Adams and not pulling into my apartment building because I want the freedom of riding through the night with my windows open and the music blaring probably a little too loudly to be winding through residential streets. Sometimes crying.

I hate my job, that's no secret, but I have no time to look for a new one. Days off quickly fill with photography or fringe assignments. Nights fill with anxiety dreams about showing up late to work one more time and getting canned. Late night texts to my NYC friends asking them to call me at EST to make sure I am up and out of bed at CST. I need to remind myself to eat because I'll have a bowl of cereal, maybe, hopefully some lunch and then all of a sudden it's 10pm and I haven't eaten anything since shoving that bowl of couscous down my throat while crouching behind the counter at work. Then, I'll see a banana or smell a pork chop cooking and all of a sudden I'll realize I'm really really hungry.

Soon, that fringe show will be done. Yeah, you better come to that fringe show. We've worked our ass off. Then, I will be done with theatre (maybe forever.) And I will sit down and send off my resume to any company that makes me feel like I actually am a valued employee. And I will find a new job and get that part time job I've always wanted. And I will do my Burlesque show which rehearses once a week. And I will work so hard that I can afford that $1400 lens I know will give me those shots I'm dying to get. And I will visit my home in Missouri and sit with my cat Ginger cause she isn't gonna live that much longer.

Jim asked me yesterday what my story was, whether or not I had a man, whether or not I wanted a man. I started speaking in tongues because I wasn't sure how to answer. (No, Aunt Barbara, I'm not a lesbian. I'm just 26 years old and way too independent for my own good. Or maybe I'm JUST 26 years old and don't need to bring a man home to the crazy farm just yet.)

Settling down is not my style. Right now. Maybe forever. I also know that someday I'll figure out how to let someone else really be a part of my life.

Right now. I am never home. I am working full time. I am shooting shows. I am going to shows. I am assisting a photographer. I am being sent to take portraits by myself which both scares and excites the shit out of me. I am working on a fringe show. I am creating Tipsy St. Swingsteen's next venture into Burlesquedom. I am texting my WonderTwin or eating enchiladas at 3am with new friends that are quickly becoming better friends. I am calling home regularly. I am unwinding right now by listening to music, editing photos and staying up way way too late.

I manage to get through this month by making an extra large cup of french press in the morning and laughing ridiculously with my friends during the day and seeing my music at night. During the songs, there are times that are so extraordinarily cathartic and joyous that I realize why I dedicate so much of my time to music. I stand dancing with my WonderTwin to Jesse Malin as he belts out Wendy. I stand with tears in my eyes as I listen to Jesse Malin in the middle of the Fine Line in the Middle of downtown Minneapolis. I love his songs, his stories, his awesome New York accent. I get choked up during Maria Isa's Puerto Rican hip-hop anthems at Babette's Bastille Days. "Don't cry," I tell myself. "Don't cry. You can't fucking cry during hip-hop in the middle of the broad daylight." But her beautiful, empowering chants wash over me and tears begin to fall down my cheeks. I drive by myself to the Turf Club and stand with my community as I listen to JoAnna James revive me all over again. I get grounded again as I sit in my safety spot to relax and shoot the Midsummer Hoot. I dance with Jim while sheepishly grinning during Tim O’Reagan. I don’t shoot every show. My camera sits still on my desk or my bed as I stand and tear up all by myself, with my friends, as I dance to Heiruspecs like the “white honkey bitch” I am. That's how I get through my week.

Jesse Malin @ The Fine Line 7-12-07


Maria Isa @ Barbette’s Bastille Day 7-15-07


JoAnna James @ The Turf Club's Revival Show 7-15-07


Davis Jones @ The Mad Ripple Hootenany 7-20-07


Tim O'Reagan @ The 400 Bar 7-20-07


Oh yeah. ButtPlug called me on Saturday and gave me some totally fucking awesome news. Flights for my precious were $180. A payment plan was working out. Which meant...which means...I AM GOING TO NEW YORK FUCKING CITY IN SEPTEMBER!! I'll get to see Spring Awakening. I'll be making a pit stop in Philly for two night cause...I'LL GET TO SEE FOUR FUCKING MARAH SHOWS!!!!! (I've already planned it: two to get shit-faced at and dance my ass off with my east coast concert crew and two to shoot at with my fancy camera and dance my ass off with my east coast concert crew.) I'll get to be ridiculous with my Doppleganger. I'll get to see my Cliff. I'll get to stay up all night with my ButtPlug and my Shaly. I'll get to wander the streets of a city I love with all my heart.



I never get sick of that video.

My heart is racing just thinking about that trip.

In September, I am moving (to a new apartment.) One of my best friends is moving (to Germany.) In September, Brucey is/better be coming out with a new album. In September, I'll have a new job. In September, I'll sleep more, eat more well rounded meals, date more (yeah right...god I hate dating,) dance more, exercise more, write more, take more photos. In September, I'll fall further in love with Minneapolis. In September, I'm pretty sure I won't have settled down at all.

For Family, We Sing a Love Song for the Hoot

I picked Jen up and we drove the special route to avoid the horrific 35WS traffic, twisting the Honda through Kings Hwy and past the graveyard, parking behind Java Jack's. We got there early, in past weeks, it would have been early enough to have our choice of seats. Not this week. Stacy came running up the stairs.

"It's really crowded already," she said.

It was the final Hoot for the season. Maybe. HOPEFULLY returning in the fall.

Of course it would be crowded.

Jen and I weaved through to the back. I threw my purse and camera bag down and we settled into our spots. Jen popped open her PBR and I debated on whether or not to buy a cookie. People were spilling in as, out of sheer laziness, I decided no.

It was close to 6:30pm. Jim scanned the room.

"Alexa! Jen! Get down here. Up front!" he shouted.

I looked at Jen.

"You go," she said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I wanna stay back," she answered assuredly.
"Okay."

I weaved back to the front. Stacy and Andrea were huddled down on the floor, in front of the tables and right by the stage. There was no room by Stacy as Tony Nelson's giganto-camera bag was splayed out. But there was room between Tony Nelson and the stone wall. It was unavoidable then that I would meet him, this man whose photos I've seen everywhere, whose giganto-camera sneaks over my shoulder at many shows, as I was about ready to practically straddle him to sit down in my seat.

The Hoot began.

I am thrown back to my first Hoot on that freezing day in February, when I walked down those basement stairs with an old friend from college. We sat up against the stone wall, huddled off to the side. Anna drank whiskey that Stook! and Jim handed out as I sat quietly, looking at all the people I knew. Well, not knew but read articles and posts, saw pictures, heard tunes...for over a year. I shivered in the cold, intimidated and intrigued.

The next week, I mustered up the courage to say hi and converse for a bit. The week after, at Jim's urging but still afraid I was overstepping some strange boundaries, I went to the bar with all of them. The week after that. The week after that. The week after that. There would be more bars, shows we would dance at, shows we would cry at, birthdays we would celebrate together, texts and emails we would send daily, Mofo qualities would be debated, records we would shop for, meals we would eat at 2am, apartments we would sit in, drink in, gossip in, smoke in. This was my Friday night for five months. It was inevitable. We had the same Friday night plans for five months. We loved the same thing.

These people, who I watched from a distance (I swear not creepily) for over a year, almost two years, are my friends. They are now real people to me: flawed, wise, so smart, snarky, creative, motivated, hilarious and kind. They have accepted me, that crazy Bruce Springsteen girl with the plastic jewelry and the camera, the animated photographer who loves to dance and write. They are my friends. They are mentors, people whose work I so greatly respect, who I can talk to and learn from, people to stand next to at shows and be really excited with about music.

And the Hoot began.

I sat wedged between the photographer and the wall, my camera in hand. My legs were contorted, half way beneath the stage. I sat directly under Jim Walsh and periodically knocked into him throughout the night. He loomed over me, casting a shadow of comfort and glee. The Hoot was his project, his labor, and he gave it over to us over and over again. Jim listens, loves and explodes with a fierce dedication. He never ever judges you for being passionate and excited, if it is true, because those qualities overflow within him. He is a friend, a fellow tramp and an inspiration. Thank you just doesn't seem like enough.

Through all the five months, I didn't shoot at the Hoot. It was my time to just sit and stare and listen. Relax. Which is much more difficult for me to do than it should be. Plus, I was and am still a bit intimidated. That's a quality that's difficult to shake. I'm learning. I'm shaking so hard.

I would shoot this Hoot...and be so very glad I did. I can say with full confidence that this was one of the greatest nights a small coffee shop in Southern Minneapolis has ever seen. One of the greatest nights I have ever seen, too.

I cried and laughed and I wasn't alone.

The performers were Jim Walsh as The Mad Ripple, Leslie Ball, Stook!, Terry Walsh (Jim's brother aka Uncle Bird), The Cates and Strange Friends...with some pretty effin' spectacular guest appearances.

Jim sang his familiar tunes. That's what makes this place home. Leslie Ball tells a story about a goose and his welcomed geese friends. She sang and I gained a new respect for the wacky woman who runs Ball's Cabaret. Stook! ripped the place apart. We all sang along to A song is mo' than just a song. Home. Terry bounced and thrilled and inspired with a song about riding bikes the wrong way up 35W. We all laughed. The Cates, Erin Kate and Caitlyn Smith, swept over the room with one guitar and two beautiful voices, clean and aching sounds. Strange Friends, planted in the back of the basement, picked us back up again.

There were more stories and songs. One after the other. Again and again.

Then, I witnessed a moment in my live music history, a song I will never forget.

Caitlyn Smith began to strum the guitar and Erin opened her mouth to sing. What I remember is not exact. The timing is not correct. But the memory is.

Day Break My Heart

If this is war, please declare it.
And if you like, I will turn the other cheek.
For you.
For you.

I'd run away but you'd just follow.
And so I stay and wait for your next move.

(((Erin's little girl, who had been jumping back and forth between her mom and her grandpa, reached out her arms to be taken back to her mom. Erin held her.)))

Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me now.

Heaven knows, the road ain't easy.
I'm not a saint but I am testing my wings for flight.
For flight.

(((Erin's girl began to wiggle a bit in her lap as her arms wrapped tighter around her daughter.)))

Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me now.

(((Erin got choked up. Tears welled in her eyes as her voice catches in her throat.)))

Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me now.
Now.

(((She cried, clutching her daughter. Tears poured from her eyes as she lifted her head up and sang above the audience.)))

There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.

(((I could not stop crying. I saw Stacy and Andrea on the other side of Tony, tears pouring from their eyes as Erin sang above their heads.)))

Say what you want
About me
It doesn't hurt
The way it used to for I have grown anew.

Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me now.

((( I had trouble taking pictures as I couldn't see through the blur of my tears. I also didn't want to come outside of myself for this moment. I sort of pawed at the wall and rested my splotchy and stained cheek against the cool stone. Erin held her baby, sang and wept.)))

Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me.
Day break my heart. Don't spare me now.
Now.

(((I am not alone as I see women, men even, Stook! even, tears in their eyes. Wiping their eyes. The room was silent besides Erin and Caitlyn's voice, the guitar and the child's occasional happy yelp. I felt isolated in my little box between the photographer, the wall, the audience, the stage. I felt so blessed at that moment to be in Minneapolis, in that basement, amongst these people. My home is brimming with such talent and it's honesty and integrity shot to my core. There was absolutely nowhere else I should have been right then. Right now.)))

There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.
There is no guard at my door.

(((I want to be brave. I want to be courageous. I want this inspiration always. I want love. That's what I thought as Erin broke, relived with such strength and beauty in front of us.)))

The song ended. I remained in a state of disbelief, tears falling from my face and snot dripping from my nose. My heart hurt so badly.

"What's that little pistols name?" Jim said.

I'm not sure Erin heard him. She didn't answer and left the stage shortly thereafter to return a song or two later.

I saw kleenexes in front of Stacy and tried to Jedi them over to me. Andrea and Stacy were holding hands. Tony sat next to me and I didn't want to ask him to hand me the tissues. I didn't really want him to see my face and my eyes. It was just me and I felt both incredibly fierce and torn apart. Isolated in a community and yet still part of those people.

Maybe then, maybe a few songs later, it was Andrea's turn to sing. She got up and held Stook!'s guitar.

"I don't play the guitar and I'm not a songwriter," she said.

Andrea then said she was inspired to write her first song after a Hoot party at Jim's house, when all these musicians played round robin with their words

"Hey, you've written a song. You're a song writer," Uncle Bird said.
"Yeah," Andrea said as she looked down.

She sang a beautiful song about voices, musicians and words. About falling in love with the people in the room. I cried, residual tears from Day Break. I cried because I was so proud of Andrea for getting up there and sharing her voice and her words.

It had become a gigantic night. A gigantic night that would soon explode when Jim's wife, Jean, stood up.

"Hey, we might need to take a break," she said.

And there was hububhubub as Jim and she discussed the line-up change. The next band needed help with their gear. More hububhubub. Then...

"Hey Gary, come up on stage," Jim shouted to the other end of the basement.

AND THEN...

GARY LOURIS TURNED THE CORNER OF THE HOOTENANY!

There he was, Minnesota legend, musical legend, rounding the corner in denim, sunglasses, cowboy boots, white man's afro, full cool motherfucker glory.

Marc Perlman, Dan Murphy and Kraig Jarret Johnson with his very very pretty hair followed behind. We were gonna have a Golden Smog party!!!

I was sitting two feet away from Gary freakin' Louris, the lead singer of The Jayhawks, a band who has painted the landscape of Minnesota, of many states, for many people. For many of my Hoot friends, The Jayhawks are their Bruce Springsteen. Gary Louris is their Boss. And I love him so much for that. Well, amongst other things like a totally badass, totally inspirational career in music.

Plus, last year, I fucking sobbed like a little baby as I played a live version of Better Days over and over and over again in my car, deleting a number from my cell phone. Finally ending a relationship. Saying goodbye.

Driving to Missouri, I love to listen to Hollywood Town Hall because it is just that album that is your home.

GARY LOURIS! GARY LOURIS! GARY LOURIS! GARY LOURIS! GARY LOURIS! GARY LOURIS!

Golden Smog, bitches. I'd be a sorry liar if I said I knew everything about them (as I am HORRIBLE with names) but I knew enough to be completely star-struck and tongue-tied. They fucking jammed!! I looked around with a shit eating grin, eyes still burning as Stook! and Steve sang gleefully to their idol. Andrea looked over at me and just mouthed "OH MY GOD!" "I KNOW!" I mouthed back. I just leaned back against that stone wall and listened to the legend, snapping photo after photo.

Everyone sang their fucking hearts out. And then Golden Smog left. After that, I couldn't sit still. The Hoot continued as High on Stress came up, Gary came back looking for his capo. I ran around. Taking pictures of the audience, of the wall, of the babies. I was going to fucking remember this basement for the rest of my life.

It lasted for four hours. When we left, Jim offered me the Hoot poster I was willing to pay for and I gingerly peeled away the lid to take it home. We all sort of parted our ways to rejoin for a bit at Keiran's. We were all in a daze. All tired. All a little bit broken. And happy. And thrilled. I wanted to sleep and listen to Day Break in the privacy of my own room. And brag to Philly friends that Gary Louris had apologized that he couldn't play my birthday Hoot. And look at my photos to think about where I have come in the past five months. How I have grown. What I've learned to accept and strive for. The perspective I've gained about what excites me, who excites me and what I look for in people. The freezing cold Hoot of February has become this fire for me.

It was about everyone that night. We have become this community of basement dwellers, music lovers, men and women who experience the energy that only could be produced by that dark, windowless room underneath the coffee makers, pastry buyers, dog walkers, city livers of South Minneapolis. The Mad Ripple led us proudly along on an awesome spiral into musical insanity away from the everyday.

I'll miss it so much but am ready to throw myself into this summer. If for some reason the Hoot ended with that show, I'll be okay because, like Pete said, then it's just not meant to go on.

Plus, I'm not the same person who walked down the stairs in February. When I walked up last week, there was an army beside me.


I have pictures to supplement this story which I will be posting within this entry shortly.

Godbless the Neverending Hoot

Cheers to the eternal party. May the music never end.















Photo of the Obsessed! by Stacy Sandstrom

Christ has "Risen." Holla.

Friday, I did the math and realized that, during the week, I had spent as much time shooting and editing pictures as I do at my full time job (37 hours.) This both intrigued, excited and scared the shit out of me (good thing because I ate Taco Bell at 3am on Friday...my intestines, like Jesus when he saw those nails coming his way, were not pleased.) I love this. I don't want to get burnt out on it. And I needed to just be present in a world I constantly try to capture through obsessive thoughts, words or pictures. So I challenged myself to not take photos. I made it most of the night, soaking in the magic of the never ending Hoot, and only cheating a bit at the end.



Because I couldn't stop wondering how the fuck did I get here? I sat in the middle of Jim's floor, against Anna's leg, staring up at the giant newspaper article he did about Bruce, SIGNED by Bruce, trying to stop Zero the dog from eating my face/making out with me.



I listened to the musicians play round robin with their voices and instruments.



They poured their heart into a living room full of fifteen or so people.



Jim actuall sang "Alexa smiles like the sun." Which was true.



I left, sober cabbing it to Big V's and standing in the midst of rock 'n' roll devil horns and screaming guitar licks. It was culture shock after the six hour soulful singer/songwriter fest.





So I grabbed the lack of poop-licious Taco Bell with Jessica, drove her home to Uptown, and sat on her couch to watch an episode of Top Design. Got I love Chalupas. God I love reality television. God I love looking across a room to realize I am not alone as the Stook! song he dedicated to (almost Chicago bound) Andrea breaks my heart.

Saturday, I worked late, dreamt about that burly biker dude with the leather jacket and big moustache who walks down Lyndale with a wiener dog wearing a skirt (two of my friends have called with sightings of my dream man...I have yet to witness him in the flesh...though my hand has), and watched six episodes of Weeds (my new favorite show.)

I got drunk in the afternoon off of three very delicious, very fruity and very strong mimosas from brunch at Genna's house. Praise Jesus. I proceeded to nap on my couch for three hours and woke up with my Easter dress up around my waste and a monster headache. God bless the 6:30pm hangover. Three tylenol and a handful of almonds later, I am cured.

My heart is a little broken right now. Jason Isbell is leaving my beloved Drive-By Truckers. Not only did he write two of my favorite DBT songs/favorite songs of all time, Outfit & Decoration Day, he is some serious Southern eye candy. Poo. His solo work, while I am absolutely thrilled about, has some very big shoes to fill.

I've decided that the horrifically insipid acronym W.W.J.D ACTUALLY stands for "What Would Jonesie Do?" Balls out, Jonesie likes to rock n roll with potato sacks under her eyes and a caffeine headache the size of your daddy's wang.

Monday: work then Son Volt at First Ave
Tuesday: work then American Idol
Wednesday: work then Voltage: Fashion Amplified at First Ave
Thursday: sleep/laundry/haircut then Leslie & the LY's at First Ave's 7th St Entry
Friday: work then Hoot
Saturday: work then Low at First Ave (maybe...if I can switch my schedule so I don't close)
Sunday: work then rehearsal

I need to know the Bionic Man's secret. Luckily, I don't feel like Uncle Floyd's burning asshole like the last time my schedule was this insane. My (almost always) healthy diet allows me to push myself to the limits...much like marathon man...except without the toned muscles and ability to move my legs back and forth in what some might call "a run."

I will leave you with this glorious, awe inspired, party caught on film:



This is from the April 5th Bruce Springsteen Tribute at Carnegie Hall. Bruce invites Craig Finn of Hold Steady to sing first. I'd like to think this is one of the top five experiences of Craig's life. I love the shit eating grin and his spastic dancing. One cannot deny the fact that he absolutely loves sharing that stage with Bruce Springsteen. Look at his wacky gestures! Look at that face! It reminds me so much of when Bruce was jamming with Bob Dylan at Shea Stadium. Craig Finn's joy is palpable (my new favorite word.) We all have our idols.

Plus I love seeing my Marah boys (especially Kirk...who is a dwarf apparently...and Adam...who still manages to look really cool though he is moving like a Suburban mom in complete elation) up there clapping and dancing.

Though I'm coming to terms with the fact that I cannot please everyone and be everywhere all at once, I should have been there. I should have been at Carnegie Hall.

Life According to Bruce: Yay for the loud, crowded party!

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.”

Two Days Ago, Two Weeks Ago

It was the perfect Friday night.

Anna and I parked in the lot of Java Jack's at 46th and Bryant. It was freezing cold outside and I was a little bit nervous. Excitement and anxiousness for my first Hootenanny experience.

We walked down the stairs into the basement. Right away I was overcome with feelings of happiness, peace and major deja-vu. We sat in old movie theatre chairs and Anna immediately went for the whiskey that Jim Walsh was offering freely. Already slightly soused, he held up the bottle and Anna poured it into the plastic cup. It was snowing a little bit outside. I was driving and there would be no alcohol for me. Besides, I don't like whiskey.

I took it all in with my mouth open and eyes a bit glazed over. The Terri Schiavo face, as Brian once called it.

I wanted the basement to be my basement. Anna said it would be someday. Except instead of a bird room, like my house back in Missouri where birds fly around freely, there would be a wiener dog room, which would actually be a giant field of poppies where wiener dogs leap out like dolphins. It is a very happy idea.

Recliners, couches, folding chairs and random movie theatre seats surrounded a small stage. The ceiling was sort of low and there were no windows to the outside. Album covers and flags and posters covered the walls. I immediately recognized Bruce's "Greetings from Asbury Park" and pointed it out to Anna. This was all too awesome.

Then I figured out what the deja-vu was from. This room reminded me of The Underground in Philly, another basement of another coffee shop with another little stage. Another sordid memory last May. I was pretty sure this Friday night wouldn't have me huddled in the alleyway behind the coffee shop with a major case of snot runs and beer tears. I was right, too.

I knew a good dozen people in the room. As a lurker/sometimes poster on howwastheshow.com, I knew these dozen or so as obsessive local music fans and cyber contributors. I follow what they write, their articles and reviews and pictures and websites. Occasionally I follow. Sometimes more than occasionally. I was a little bit intimidated. Sometimes more than a little bit. I caught myself staring, thinking if I would ever get up the nerve to have a conversation with these people. How much of an asshole would I make out of myself when I tried to talk? Would they ever be my concert friends? Would I ever stand in their circle or sit next to them at a Hootenanny?

I don't know.

But I do know that having Anna next to me made me really happy. I didn't have to worry about how much of an asshole I would be because it's understood. We would both be assholes together. We both kept our coats on because this perfect basement room was also bitingly cold. My feet were frozen and I wished I had about ten more pair of socks.

There were fifty or so people lightly packed into the basement. Jim Walsh poured more whiskey and the four musicians tuned their guitars. Jim Walsh had taken a night off of hosting and Stook stepped up. I kept thinking that, had we gone to high school together, Stook and I would have been friends. I don't know why specifically high school. It just seemed right.

The music started. Four local musicians (Jim Walsh as The Mad Ripple, Stook!, Brianna Lane, Bill Dankert) who played acoustic guitars and sang lyrics we could all understand. Some broke your heart and some made you really happy. There were a lot of songs, a lot of jokes, a lot of stories and still a lot of whiskey. Anna and I just sat against the wall in our movie theatre seats and laughed a lot. They all got drunker as my feet got colder, though I really stopped caring too much about that a long while ago. I was so comfortable and my mind was able stop racing for two hours. Anna said it was like I had found my people. I felt like I was on the outskirts of this club that wasn’t really exclusive at all. It was just nice.

Two hours later it was over. I spit my gum out; we bundled up and ran back into the cold. Back to the slippery streets and into Seward. We picked up Laura at her house. I drove into downtown. My nightmare, these one-way streets with drunken girls and frat boys waltzing awkwardly through lights. We parked and trekked into First Ave for Trampled by Turtles.

The club was packed with hippies, rockers, mid-lifers, beards, beads, weed and even a little treat who kept hitting on Laura. By the time we made our way around front, Pert Near Sandstone had ended, the one opener we had come to see, which was a bummer. A bummer soon forgotten once the girls got beers and we all started jumping up and down to the second opener, The Kissers (from Madison.)

I would have an orgy with every single member of The Kissers. I’m just saying.

Trampled by Turtles started and the club sort of exploded. Anna finished her whiskey and we were far enough back that Laura’s little treat was a distant memory. It was the three of us in the middle of a sausage fest sprinkled with ladies. We jumped higher and danced crazier to this blue-grass madness. We jigged and twirled and hugged a lot, linking arms, leaning our heads on each other’s shoulders and keeping rhythm on each other’s backs. I decided then that this audience would best be described as rowdy but respectful. They rocked around us, giving us a little space but not really afraid to sometimes jig right into us, as an audience should. I ran into a few people I knew. Danced especially hard with them. Friends from college and friends of friends. Close friends for just that night. It was like my earlier hootenanny had blown up in exactly the right way.

Trampled by Turtles rocked. Pros who fiddled and strummed so quickly that, at times, you couldn’t see their hands. They sang these songs that had us waving our arms in the air and dancing around and around. They created this audience.

Anna, Laura and I left. Sweaty and soaked in spilled whiskey. We ran out into the cold and I saw my First Ave bouncer who still remembers me from the one night I worker there over a year ago. He asked for a hug and I ran up to him. I jumped up and wrapped my arms around him and told him I was glad he hadn’t forgotten about me. He told me he couldn’t. That made me happy, too.

We ran into the parking garage, into my car and drove to the Seward Luce, a spot that is quickly becoming our spot. The waiter remembered us and even remembered that we were sitting in the same seats as last week. We chugged our waters. I got the same salad as last week and we continued on with our night, talking about music and boys and art and all that lovely nothing that three girls talk about at 2am.

We drove home and I crawled into my bed, under my covers, so worn out and happy I was almost sick.

Like I said, it was the perfect Friday night.

At one point during the Hootenanny, when Stook sang a song about his Valentine, he mistakenly referred to the holiday as two weeks ago. The audience laughed. If every day were as great as Friday, my two-week eternity would be heaven.

I took no pictures of my Friday night, even though my camera was at my side the entire time. I had to soak it in at the Hoot and cameras weren’t allowed at First Ave. I kept thinking I had to write it down to remember this night. And my words will help me remember it.

But then there’s the other side. Sometimes, for me, words don’t do an experience justice when photographs will.

My Valentine’s Celebration: SCARFTASTIC!