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!

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 then...my 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.