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.

What Ike Said, What I Saw

Last Friday, I crouched behind Tony Nelson in the green room of The Cabooze as Ike Reilly, his groupies and his band sat in front of us.

Tony snapped portraits as I manned the light box. Ike, who I had been introduced to about ten minutes prior, looked drunkenly, directly at me.

"You are very put together," he remarked.
"Thank you," I answered quietly, smiling.

Tony swiveled around laughing, "Was he talking to you?"

I sorta answered but stayed focused on observing, occasionally attempting wit but mostly staying silent, trying to learn, dressed in my light blue western shirt with stars and sparrows, a navy blue bandanna, and bright red lips.

Focused and accessorized had thus translated to put together. Flattered and sweaty, my feet were scratched and sticky from a beer bottle that had been broken and fallen against my Chaco's, my ears rang from a lack of plugs (IwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylesson,) and the bright red long-wearing lipstick had actually cracked and coagulated on my lips.

In other words, I had just witnessed one helluva rock show.

At one point, as I was snapping a (few) hundred live shots for my archives, my musical WonderTwin and her HowWasTheShow review, Tommy Odonnell's mic stand began to fall from the stage towards the audience and specifically right onto me. My first instinct was to cover my camera and, by doing so, the stand hit me right on the head. I lifted up one hand and my audience neighbor lifted it the rest of the way up. Everyone else danced and cheered along, unfazed.

I was completely fine, it felt like an awkward, embarrassing tap, but Tommy looked down from the stage, horrified. He reached for my hand, grabbed it and shouted above the music.

"I'M SO SORRY! DID I HIT YOUR CAMERA OR YOUR HEAD???"
"MY HEAD...BUT IT'S BETTER THAT WAY!" I screamed.
"BUT I CAN BUY YOU A NEW CAMERA! I CAN'T BUY YOU A NEW HEAD!" he screamed.
"IT'S FINE! I'M FINE!" I screamed.

One helluva show.







I knelt down and just kept observing a photographer and a rocker. Many girls and a few boys lined up to get their picture taken, meet him, say hi. Ike and the band remembered some and welcomed others. Girls piled on top of each other just to sit close to him. Everyone except me and Tony seemed drunk, especially Ike, who rested against the fake wood paneling in his wife-beater, torn jeans, and slicked back hair, like a lost cast member of Grease.

"Are you seriously okay?" Tommy asked again.
"Seriously, I am. I'm really hard headed. But I'll send you any medical bills," I answered.
"Sure, the Ike Reilly Insurance Policy will cover any damages!" he answered back, smiling.

I kept watching Ike with his doting fans and I got this overwhelming sense of third party observer. It was like I was watching who I had been with so many of my rockers whom I love and follow (and hoping I wasn't that drunk or doting.) I was watching me the first time I met the Bielanko brothers. Ike was awesome and I had a great time at that show but I am just a casual fan. I don't own all his albums, don't know most of his songs and this was only my first concert of his (though not my last, for sure.) I just couldn't stop thinking of Marah, which makes me want this NYC/Philly trip to happen with every fiber of my rock fan being. It's not Bruce because I've never met Bruce, only shook his hand and watched him through his tinted van window (that is not/maybe is a little as creepy as it sounds.) Meeting the Marah boys in Brooklyn '05 was my first real experience with musical idols becoming real people to have drunken conversations with. It was awesome then and an awesome site to observe now.

"Thanks guys so much!" I waved as we left, lugging all the camera gear around my dirty shoulders. "That was so awesome! Have fun!"

It all felt so normal, like I was a part of this musical world. It was normal and huge at the same time.

Before I was a rock fan, I was Little Miss Broadway. I was raised on trips to the theatre in downtown Kansas City. For a good eighteen years, that was what I loved, that's the majority of music that made me cry and yelp with joy. My dear biotech's recent blog entry not only had me aching for a return trip to NYC but reminded me of one of the greatest examples of Jonesie ridiculousness.

An EXTREME guilty pleasure in my past (and still sorta current) showtune loving repertoire is the song Mr. Mistoffelees from Cats. For some god awful reason, it just made (makes) me happy...further evidence that I am indeed a flaming homosexual in a woman's body.

Hello....GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY (and creepy)!



Jonesie Ridiculousness: My parents took my sister and I to Cats a few times growing up. One of those times, we were about ten rows back. I fell asleep some time after the show started. Head down, dead asleep. Until that bone rattling drum beat/horn blow when Mr. Mistoffelees comes flying down from the ceiling.

With the mancat flying down from the ceiling and the orchestra swelling, I was jolted awake, flew back into my seat and I crossed myself, Eastern Orthodox style. What. the. FUCK!?!?!? I have no earthly idea why that was my first instinct. I'm not sure who else saw me. All I remember is being completely disoriented (and yet completely mesmerized.) It's almost as if the gods were speaking to me through the power of the cats and their giant codpieces. I blame it on that mysterious pussy power.

That is why I'll never be as cool as Ike Reilly.

Twin Cities f*cking ROCK...then and forever!

Paul Westerberg at The Fitzgerald Theater
June 16, 2007

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.

So walk tall or baby don't walk at all

On Thursday, April 26th, I stood in The Varsity with my camera. It was Stook! and Chris Koza opening for JoAnna James. I took over five hundred pictures that night.



I danced around, twisted around, bent on my knees to try to get the shot I wanted. Capture Stook!'s infectious joy, Koza's understated sense of cool that melts away at moments. Katie, an old work friend, sat behind me as I ran around. She clutched onto her seat. Steve and Jim stood beside me at different points in the show. It was a wonderful night of music all around and it ended with JoAnna soulful pipes reeling with angst and pain and beauty and joy. At one point, Jim was cheering for JoAnna and I look up at him and say "this night is magic." He grabs my shoulders and kisses my head. I take more pictures. Martin walks by, a musician, head of her record label Eclectone Records, and he is choked up. Tears are welling up in his eye.

"I'm so proud of our girl," he says to Jim, "now I have to sing."



The show ended and I said goodbye. In a daze, I stood at the back of the Varsity for a moment. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want it to end. One of my favorite parts about traveling for Bruce Springsteen shows and staying in hotels near the arena is that the 3.5 hour party that happened on stage most certainly continues in the lobby, in the bar, in the rooms of the hotel. One night, in Chicago for Devils & Dust, someone was banging away on the piano and everyone, 20, 30, 40, 50 some odd people, were singing along to Thunder Road.

I wanted the party to somehow continue. But then I was overwhelmed with this sensation of needing to run outside, be outside away from everyone. I walked through the doors, mofoed Stook! and walked on to the parking lot.



Tears welled up in my eyes. I got closer to Brucie the Honda. And they started to pour. I opened my car doors and sat inside and I wept. Pulling away in a cloud with tears streaming down my face, listening to JoAnna's "Back of my Mind" EP, driving around the block that surrounds The Varsity because I couldn't leave it just yet. So happy, sort of distraught, cathartic. At that moment, I was entirely sure I had made the right decision to stay in Minneapolis and not move to New York. For now. For awhile. For I don't know how long any more. This is right. I called Laura and talked to her about art. This is my home, a place that inspires me, challenges me and brings out my current best. I knew that wholly as Back of my Mind
blared from my player.

This past Tuesday, my computer was stolen. Several people told me they understood my pain cause, you know, if there were a fire in your house, you would grab your photo albums first. My house, my art, burnt on the inside. The frame is what is left.



On Thursday, I bent behind the counter at work and started to cry for the zillionth time this week. I was overwhelmed again for the zillionth time this week. My finances were really fucked up. The Department Store hadn't paid me for Indiana vacation time I had requested, my rent check was going to bounce and I didn't know how to take care of that. But I did. I fixed it. And it knocked me down again in trying to fix it. But I had just talked to my mom and she had given me some extraordinary news. Without my asking, for my birthday, my mom and dad were going to buy me a new Mac laptop. I am not too proud right now to accept this gift that I can currently in no way pay for myself. They are just public school teachers. But they have given me a gift that I will use everyday, not just because internet is my crack but because that is the home to my pictures.



And I know sometimes I don't know how to ask for help when I need it, from my family and friends. I've lived so much of my life working towards a sense of ecstatic self, a sense of independence. I know how to take care of myself, to live by myself, to completely immerse myself in this life. My life. To use an overused cliche, I pride myself on being able to stand on my own two feet. But sometimes I can't stand up. I can't walk. I fall. And so many people are there to help me, to hold my hand, to talk to me, to let me ramble about Bruce Springsteen or tell my ridiculous stories, to accept me.



The people in my life have supported me endlessly this week. After my computer jacking and last post, I woke up to several texts, myspace comments and messages, voice mails. They've continued this entire week. I was offered a hand hold, an ear, a shoulder, constant condolences, old computers, a new computer, hard drive space to download my photos, Adobe, a bouquet of lilacs, a loan, pictures from Spain that my family had taken, burnt CDs of pictures I had taken that I had given to others. Even a freaking employee at the Apple Store that I chat with on an almost daily basis gave me a dorky but incredibly endearing hug when I told him why I was trying to figure out how to download my songs from my ipod back to a new computer. Not one person judged me for reacting so strongly. Everyone understood. I was seriously overwhelmed by how awesome so many people acted towards me. I know the best people in the world!

On Friday, I danced at Zenon, then drank with some friends at the 331 Club as JoAnna James played again. I talked to her for the first time. She hugged me. She loved my photos of her show, she had said in her myspace message, and wanted to buy me a drink. She said that they made her choke up because they reminded her of how great that night was at The Varsity on that Thursday night, how special it was to her. She had forwarded them onto her family and friends. Her mom told me how happy they made her, how often she has looked at them. And I'm just glad to be able to give something back to an artist, artists, who have given me so much. As friends, part of my Minneapolis family, people I dance with, cry to and laugh around.

Stook!'s record is called A Soundtrack to my Minneapolis.


This afternoon, I pulled up to work and there were enormous black clouds billowing around the lot of the employee entrance...my first thought was...HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT...THE DEPARTMENT STORE IS BURNING TO THE GROUND...MY WISH HAS COME TRUE!!!!!

Alas, it is in tact, but it was like a holiday with all the drama circulating. A car had actually exploded, blowing out the windows and hood of not only the fire ball itself but a few cars around it. Luckily, no one was hurt. As much as I (the anti-confrontational girl from a funny farm in Missouri) want to punch about a dozen people that work there, I don't really want them to burn to the cement ground.

Anyway, on Monday, my Anna/Little Lamb leaves for the summer. So it was her goodbye party tonight. I peeled away from The Department Store in a cloud of smoke and arrived at the house. I saw Anna in one window and Genna in another window. They live in the same building down in Seward. I spend more time in that house than I do in my own.

I stood outside and yelled Litttttttttttle LAAAAAAAAAAAAMBIE! Genna tells me she sees me. Then, Anna peeks her head and tells me to wait. I stood there, first in the grass then in Genna's living room, enjoying a smoke (of what...Mom...if you are reading this...by enjoying a smoke...you know I don't mean cigs...cause I'll never ever smoke one of those again...by enjoying a smoke, I mean reading passages from Wuthering Heights.) Genna told me they were finishing the surprise. Genna peeks her head out and whispers something across to the other apartment. They're ready.



I walk to Laura's door. Anna has been staying there too as she had no place to stay for a month before her summer in southern Minnesota doing Shakespeare (Willy Willy Boom Billy...an utterly pointless statement to write but I keep saying over and over again in my head because it's FUN!) I heard Thunder Road playing and I, of course, loved that and got really excited. The door opened, I saw people, mine and Anna's friends, sitting or standing all around.

Anna points down, "Happy Birthday, Jonesie!"

I see the Born to Run record spinning on the turn-table.

"Awwww...I love Born to Run...I could definitely use another copy of this album...because the only one I have is framed on my wall right now. Wait, I think I actually have another under my desk. But that's still a cute gift!" I thought.

"Yeah. I love Born to Run!" I said.

"It's all yours, Jonesie!" Anna said.



My stomach dropped.

"The record player?" I muttered.

"YEAH!" she said.

"HOOOOOOOLY SHIT! IT'S MINE!??!?! THIS IS AWESOME!!!! MY HEART IS BEATING IN MY THROAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ALGLHJSJGLH:A:kgh:jheouwlkj:lak:ly:tuoeowpyaajAKDJHLFSKAJDFHLKJSA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I screamed.

Everyone was smiling and I almost started to cry. Seriously. Y'know...for the zillionth time this week.



I haven't had a record player since I was a little girl. My sister and I used to spend the weekends reenacting the Annie musical, lip syncing and dancing with full costume and props. I was always little orphan Annie, naturally. But I'm convinced it's because really my sister just loved to play the drunk Miss Hannigan. Naturally. And this was all to the Annie record my mom had. And, by the way, god bless my parents for sitting through a bazillion cheap karaoke productions of Annie.



I don't know why I never bought a turn table. It just hadn't happened. UNTIL NOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOO!

The only records I own are almost all of Bruce Springsteen's albums (including one Dancing in the Dark single where he's completely gaying it up on the cover in this amazing dance pose,) one Southside Johnny album & that Annie album from my childhood. I completely regret giving all my parents old records to this deejay I had dated because I thought I would never actually use them. DJ, can I have them back, please?


Sidenote: not a picture of the deejay...but I like that he's looking at me in this shot...cause the deejay definitely looked at me with this sorta creepy, sorta intense stare. Reason number zillion the thing with the deejay ended.

A few of my friends pooled their hard earned cafe cash, planned and searched and investigated for a long time, and bought me this totally kick ass turn table. This is by far one of the greatest presents I have ever received!!!!!!!!!

So this hell week has such a brilliant ending. Because shit goes down and, as trite as it sounds, I have constantly been overcome in the past five days by the support I have received. Because of everything. When my mom called me to tell me about the birthday gift they would be giving me, she also told me my grandpa, who is 87 years old and not in the best of health, wants to send me a little check to help me out after my loss. And that set me off again. Mom then told me she loved me, she knew this work, what I spend time seeing and doing, is important to me. And thus important to her. I have seen over and over again, in every possible way, how amazing the people in my life are. So thank you everyone!

And the fact that another of my pictures made The Photo of the Week at www.howwastheshow.com has made me continuously happy throughout this flipped out week. This discovery was last Monday. It is a picture of JoAnna James. From that show I left in those good tears.

PHOTO OF THE WEEK FOR 5/6/2007!!!


It was from the last set I was able to download and upload before everything was stolen. It is a set I am extraordinarily proud of. It's the set that has accompanied this ramble. On a different note, it's strange but I'm really afraid of falling out of love with photography, maybe getting burnt out and not caring about it like I do right now. I go to shows. I see the picture in front of me. Will that change? Will I lose interest in this like I did with theatre? God I hope not. It's hard for me because I feel like I have to take a first picture all over again. And once I do that, then it really will be real that they are pretty much all gone. But I'm going to because seeing those shots this week and not taking the photo was worse. Because, like I said, I love being able to give back to the people that hold me up.

Wow, cheesy. But true. CHEESY BUT TRUE! Just like Jonesie...MWAHAHA!

Anyway...a special THANK YOU to Anna, Laura, Genna, George, Kevin & Ben...the friends behind the turn table!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need this. The music is everywhere for me. And now it will have the beautiful, hollow, crackling sound accompanying it.

I'm so good right now. Tired because I stayed up until seven in the morning to write and look at all the photos I have on flickr. I'm so ready to spend my grandpa's gift on some coffee and new records! I'm so ready to take my first new photo!

Seriously, WHO WANTS TO GO RECORD SHOPPING??? YAAAAAAAAAAAY!

I work at a mall. Ask me how I survive?

I've always hated malls. I love to shop but I've always hated malls. They are nasty and dirty and mallrats drive me insane and I would burn a place down based purely on the fact that Abercrombie & Fitch exists within it. I grew up in Kansas City where The Plaza is mecca. Beautiful, classic, interesting mecca. Most importantly, it's outdoors. And not in the strip mall Fashion Bug next to a nail salon that will eventually get busted for meth and a mexican restaurant that will eventually get busted for illegal immigration (both happened.) Now, after years of working behind a computer, I work at a mall (for the past year and a half.) And I still hate malls. I just love my coworkers and flexible schedule and the fact that I go to work to stare off into space, occasionally touch someones face, wander around, befriend the Apple Store dudes and look at the bright colors because that makes it worth all worth it (most of the time...for now.)





Yep, I graduated from St. Olaf College, a school that was not cheap, and did well at St. Olaf College, a school that was not easy. And now I work at a mall. But...like I've said...and I still believe...it affords me my rock 'n' roll lifestyle. And that wherein lies the challenge and awesomeness of life. Yeah, The Department Store is a big place, with lots of shitheads, but the good outweighs the bad. And the good will always mock the bad with fierce intensity once the bad gets all the way up the escalator. Someday, I will write a book about the ridiculousness I've experienced working at a mall (oh god the mall hair, oh god the lack of genuine conversation, oh god the camel-toe and belly shirts I have seen...all from workers at The Department Store.)






Plus...like I've said...and I still believe...I have some seriously awesome coworkers.

In school, we probably wouldn't have been friends. Except work Danielle, who became one of my closest friends (then she moved to AZ,) we never do much socially (except that kickass time they all came to the Marah concert with me.) We don't have a ton in common. But we spend all day together and thus we have become family. And we bicker and laugh like sisters. And it surprises me when I come to the realization that they know me REALLY well.

We play games to pass the time...

For instance:

1) If you were a food, what would you be (work Danielle was not happy when I said she would be beef)?
2) Chuck, fuck or marry this hideous manager, this hideous manager or this hideous manager?
3) Where do you see yourself in five years?
4) What kind of guy do you see each other with? (To quote Radwa: "Alexa, you are gonna end up with a guy that is sexy...but in that homeless kind of way." I fell over in my chair that I wasn't supposed to be sitting in, laughing so hard that people walking by thought I was having a medical emergency)
5) Oh...and there was that time I asked my vegan/animal rights activist coworker if she would rather
1) Eat a huge McDonald's hamburger?
OR
1) Kill her beloved pit-bull Ginger?

Uhhhh...she started tearing up at the idea of killing her pet and I realized that the games had gone a tad too far...but I don't think I really learned my lesson. I never do.

Last night, at the Son Volt show (where Jason Isbell, formerly of the DBT, opened), CoworkerKristin and I were sitting at a table as I was scarfing down some vegan banana bread that tasted like flavored toilet paper rolls. We were playing a game of "Do you see anyone in the vicinity who you are attracted to?" As we are both attracted to the same type of guys (and we are both extreme pussies with these type of guys...or any guys who we would eventually like to "know"...thus we have bonded), the answer seemed to always be...

no
no
no
no
no
yeah definitely not
maybe
no
no
no

Then I saw him walk by and I inhaled sharply. He looked at CoworkerKristin. And he looked at me. Right in the eyes. My hand clutching the vegan toilet paper crust was shaking a bit. It was Jason Isbell standing by our table and I was star struck. Under Bruce, the Drive-By Truckers are in my next tier of awesomeness (with a few others.) I've had a violet and soothing love affair with them the moment I heard Zip City for the first time. I have been rock 'n' rolled to the core with this band. And Jason is a huge part of that (or was...wahhh...sniff...wahhh.) He kept walking and I whispered...loudly...

That was Jason! THAT WAS JASON ISBELL!

It very much reminded me of the time Marah walked by in Chicago at my first show in 2005, before they knew me as "Minnesota!", and I had a mini heart-attack.

CoworkerKristin looked at me and said...

Oh My God! My first thought when he walked by was "No. Not him"

As in, she wasn't attracted to him either.

JASON! MY SOUTHERN EYE CANDY!

But then he started his set...



(Disclaimer...those shots are not from last night...they are from May 17, 2006 when the DBT played at First Ave the night before my last birthday...my fancy schmancy camera isn't allowed in First Ave and I can't bear to go back to my point and shoot yet for these shows...It kills me every time I see some bad ass pose or facial expression or lighting effect that I cannot capture.)

With his boyish looks and wide Southern smile, you'd think he wouldn't be capable of rocking the shit out of song. How could someone that looks that young instill so much soul into his music? But he did. The songs of his new record blended well with old DBT songs. And while it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the force of nature that is the Drive-By Truckers are not around him, I am thrilled to see where Jason takes his solo career.

Plus, when he sat down to play the keyboard for his final song, I totally checked to see what side he sets his Southern charm on. This is a habit I blame on my college days when some of my profs wore really tight pants. And I was just a lonely girl from Missouri who only got drunk once her senior year of highschool and went to prom with her hairdresser's nephew.

After Jason's set, CoworkerKristin looked at me with eyes wide open.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I EVER SAID NO!

Mission Accomplished. A fellow Jason lover was born.

See...the thing is...when I really think hard about last night...I just enjoyed Jason Isbell more than Son Volt.

I love Son Volt's records. Windfall is (almost) right up there with DBT's Outfit & Decoration Day. And I really enjoy his newest album "The Search." This was the first time I saw Son Volt in concert and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. I've been schooled in the ways of Jay (and his extreme seriousness) before. But Jay Farrar just didn't seem to enjoy himself up there. Yes, he takes what he has written very seriously. Yes, he has written some killer tunes. But I literally turned to CoworkerKristin halfway through and made a bet with her that he wouldn't smile once during his show. I lost the bet because there were a couple slight smirks towards the end. And to quote CoWorker Kristin...

He hasn't changed his hair since 1994.

It was seriously the shaggy hair club up there on that stage.

I realize this is part of Jay, part of Son Volt, part of his persona but I have seen painful, serious music performed with so much soul that it makes my heart and tear ducts burst. I couldn't decide if he just seemed confident, like this was something so normal that he didn't need to put on any sort of production, or just arrogant. And I cannot stress enough how much I hate arrogance.

I am pretty sure, in the end, that Jay, though riding the fine line, ends up on the winning side with confident.

I didn't hate Son Volt by any means. Hearing Windfall live was awesome, as was Action (which is my current favorite song from the new album) and hearing the Uncle Tupelo song Life Worth Livin' kicked some ass. His set really picked up for me about halfway through when I became obsessed with the sneer on guitarist Chris Masterson's face and the way that bassist Andrew Duplantis just attacked those strings. I kept imagining the calluses peeling back from the tips of his fingers and the stringy muscle underneath that would just keep playing. Chris, with his sculpted Edward Scissorhands haircut, would just grimace, playing hard. Andrew, with his surfer dirty blond shag, would just smile, attacking those strings. It was like the devil and the angel on either side of some distant, stoic stranger.

In the end, though all extraordinarily talented, they only seemed to really mesh as one band a small handful of times. When they interacted with each other, gave to each other, they opened up to the audience and that's when I personally got those rock concert chills. When Jay would project that seriousness outwards, the music spilled over us and I really believed him.

I just really love Jason. Because I want my dirty rock music to have some infectious joy connected. And palpable (remember...new favorite word) pain.

Oh and back on the subject of work...I will always love to poop on the clock. It's all part of my Southern charm.

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!

My Saturday Night Alone

Saturday night, the weather was shit, cold and misty. Damp and dank. Dark and ominous. You know...just like the crotch of la mere de Buttplug. I ran home from a crabby day at work, ripped off my Department Store black and laid around in my underwear until Badonks and I decided just to get Mexican at the authentic, hole in the wall up the street. I put jeans on and changed into my favorite faux Western blue shirt, faux peppermint earrings and bright orange traffic controller rain jacket. We stepped outside, linked arms underneath the purple duck umbrella and walked up Hispanic row. I got fajitas. She got enchiladas. And, for once, it wasn't me who almost shat my pants on the walk home.

I grabbed my camera and got back into my car. I was alone. Driving downtown, getting quasi lost downtown, calling Badonks to get unlost downtown and parking in the cheap lot next to my venue downtown.


I chatted with a few people that I recognized from the Hoot, my orange jacket draped over my camera bag against my side. I hung towards the back during Stook!'s set, separate, against a column and let the little fajita shrimpies swim in my intestines. I love these tunes and look forward to Stook! opening for JoAnna James on April 26th, when the little shrimpies will be nothing but porcelain memories.



I ran out of the Fine Line as soon as Stook! had finished so I could book it to The Varsity. It was still damp out but I was calm. At peace. Even after some jackoff started trying to talk to me about working in the Wells Fargo building and its breathtaking view. Don't talk to me, jackoff. I am alone by choice tonight. And I'm having a night of rare independent peace.



I walked into the lot and have a SWEETMOTHERFUCKER! moment after I realized my car is not in the lot. Then I had a DUMBMOTHERFUCKER! moment when I realized I was standing in the wrong lot. I found my Honda, in tact, and get the hell out of downtown, naturally getting lost on my way to The Varsity for the Eclectone Records Showcase.

I found it eventually, like I always do, and walked into the venue. It was a little more empty than I had thought it would be but there was this relaxed vibe permeating the air. Everyone was mingling, standing with their drinks or draped over one of the mattresses or comfy chairs. The Mad Ripple started as I entered the theater and I plopped into a black rotating chair on the floor, turning slightly back and forth throughout the entire set. They were Hoot songs he sang. They are familiar to me.

Before Martin Devaney, I wandered around a bit, walking upstairs to stare out the windows by the bathroom. The night sky was now clear as I looked over Dinkytown.

I walked back down the stairs and my twirly chair was still open. I sat.



Martin Devaney's folksy music was heartbreaking. My independent little heart broke, especially as he sang Flowers on the Doorstep. And still rocks out a bit. It's a strong little heart. A few times, Martin REALLY reminded me of Bruce during his acoustic tour. The shrimpies did a dance of joy. Jim sat down next to me, looked up, saw me and he sort of shouted my name. We talked for a bit. I asked him about Martin's age. He said "maybe 27 or 28. He's just a baby." I thought about how this 27 or 28 year old breaks 25 year old hearts and owns his own record label. Stellar resume.



Another break. I climbed back up to the bathroom, just to run around a bit, and looked at myself in the mirror for a second. I never get sick of checking out the piercing. I love my navy bandana and red striped earrings. This time I walked slowly down the stairs, checking the concert posters that line the wall, almost tripping because I was staring at Regina Spektor's picture. I nade it down okay and found chair closer to the stage. JoAnna James sings next.

Aching, yearning tunes. Another broken heart. This white girl nailed the blues. There is hope for all of us. ( Y'know...except me.)



I did't leave my seat this time. Steve walked up to me. I stood. We chatted about my new lens. I am thrilled that I can even contribute to this conversation. God bless this lens. God bless. We chatted about getting lost downtown. I mentally thanked the Hoot for introducing me to these people.

Mark Stockert stood on the smaller stage set up opposite of the main stage. He was trashed. I was nervous. Regardless, he was composed. And then one of those live music experiences happened that can never be replicated or even described adequately enough.

Mark set down his guitar against a speaker and stood on the edge of the stage.



He started half singing, half wailing this phrase: "light me up and knock me down."



Then, I heard a guitar from the opposite side of the Varsity. Then, a voice from another end. Then, another voice, another end.



I looked into the middle of the Varsity and Martin was there and started singing along, too. Someone joined him. It was dark and I couldn't really tell who it was. Someone else joined the duo. They were together in a small clump, arms raised. Mark & Martin, with their arms raised, were commanding the audience to sing along.



The sound of instruments and voices were everywhere, layered one then the other then the other then everyone. It surrounded us, a wall of sound building up all around. The Varsity seemed vast at that moment.



He started and ended his short set with this. I sat my camera against my leg and just shot it. Alone, but entirely happy, singing along to a song that I had no idea what the words were. It was my version. Everyone was singing their version. I realized later what Mark was chanting was actually from a sign that hung behind him against the wall of The Varsity Theater.



Jim came up to me afterwards, amazed at the song. He introduced me to Mark. Mark was even more wasted, but this time he had a huge grin across his face. As he sort of wobbled back and forth, he told me he couldn't believe that had happened. I asked him if it was planned. He said "Sort of. But not really." It didn't matter. At that moment, I didn't want to dig too deep into that experience, I just wanted to revel in it a moment longer. Mark told me he wanted another drink. I told him he deserved it.

It probably meant something different to each attendee of that show, everything from Jim's ecstasy to nothing but a poster sing-a-long. I, alone that Friday night, won't forget that sensation of turning around in my chair, preening my neck to see where all that sound was coming from, what all that sound was, how far it would keep going, would it wail on forever?

I needed to rock.

Chris Perricelli of Little Man walked by and I thought "Man, he's short" and then, months after seeing pictures and reading articles, I had an extraordinary epiphany: "Ohhhhh...that's why his band is called Little Man." Nice, Jonesie. Real nice.

Someone yelled out "You're not little. YOU'RE BIG!" and I couldn't decide if that was annoying or endearing.



Little Man ripped it apart.



Rocked and leapt and sang and shredded



It felt like Little Man was looking directly at me. He did.



I was so intrigued by this fierce rocker.



That annoying/endearing guy from beginning was right.



Little Man is very very big.



I saw Stook! from across the way, flashed the mofo sign and he came over, through the dancing audience.



Stook! and I watched Jim Walsh worship at Little Man's feet.



Stook! and I watched/laughed as two seiz-tastic, older women "dance."



I shook back and forth, barely moving my feet but having my own mini seiz-tastic dance.



I snapped picture...



...after picture...



...after picture...



Little Man ended his set. We cheered. The audience was sort of thin but we had just experienced a night of tight, polished, wonderful music. Everyone was beaming. I stood still for a moment and then hugged Jim and Stook! good-bye.

As I passed the merch table, I bought two albums (Martin Devaney & Little Man.) I walked out of The Varsity, past all those drunk douchebags against the walls of The Library, clutching my new music in my fist. As soon as I got into my car, I stared at the albums, deciding on Martin for the car ride home. I needed something chill to sing me to sleep at 2am.

I was never really alone to begin with.



Over and over and over again.