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.

Pulling the plug on Terri Schiavo all over again

My Morning at The Department Store

As I was standing, arms crossed, staring at the suburbanite with The Hair who Heather was helping choose an eye shadow...

ME (in my head): God woman...your hair...it's awful...you obviously took time with it...it's huge...and holy shit that color and those roots...and my god how much hairspray do you have in it...of course your son is at a hockey tournament...you are about to drop $150 on make-up and it won't make a shit of a difference because your hair...you talk too damn much woman...and you say shit a lot...damn woman...you need a cut....bad...what the fuck time did you wake up to start that hair...damn your hair...huge...awful...

HEATHER: The taupe will really warm you up and looks great with blue eyes.
THE HAIR (looks directly at me): WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?!?! YOU LOOK HORRIFIED!
ME (uncrossing my arms in a panic and shaking my head): WHAT?!?! Oh. It's not YOU! It's my neutral face.
THE HAIR: That wasn't a neutral face.
ME (trying really hard to be overly apologetic): It is for me! It's just my face. I'm SORRY! Everyone thinks I'm upset when really I'm just staring off into space!
THE HAIR: Are you just having a really bad day? Seriously...that look!
HEATHER (meekly): It's just her look.
ME: No, I'm actually having a really GOOD day.
THE HAIR: Well I'd hate to see you on a really bad day.
ME (giggling nervously and hyperactively): Hahaha. Yeah.

The Hair caught my Terri Schiavo face. But I wasn't JUST Schiavo-ing it like I am wont to do at The Department Store. The Schiavo was mixed with hardcore hairspace judgement. Lethal Combination. Most of the time, you can really read what I'm thinking by looking at my face. I cannot tell a lie. I wish I could because I don't really want complete strangers to think ill of me. And customer usually like me! I've even been called pleasant and kind and fun! Please don't blame me. I am a vegetable who shats into a bag. I can't really control myself.

Two minutes later, I left, clocked out and drove away into the sunlight, blaring Mark Mallman as I peeled out of The Department Store parking lot.

Heather called me five minutes later.

HEATHER: Oh my god that woman was a fucking psycho.
ME: Yeah she wouldn't shut the fuck up about my face. It's MY face and it's ME!
HEATHER: Yeah, after you left she was all like "OH MY GOD IS SHE A NICE PERSON??!?!?!" and I was like "YEAH!" and she was like "THAT LOOK! GOD!!!" and I was like "It's just her expression. She's nice."
ME: IT'S MY FACE! Like c'mon woman. I mean, her hair was awful, but IT'S MY FACE! GOD DAMMIT I'M A NICE PERSON!
HEATHER: Her hair was awful.

Ahhhhh...The Department Store...you really feed my soul...through a long long tube that I can never escape from until one of us pulls the plug.

To add insult to facial injury, I just watched, for the first time, the DVD of my October stint into the world of Burlesque dancing. Oh god. Oh dear sweet merciful god. Maddie (whose pastie fell off in the middle of her Flashdance performance) and I sat on the couch, in the dark, huddled together, clutching each other as we roared with laughter and screamed in agony and felt our heart beats through our chest. Seriously I cannot BELIEVE that it is forever recorded in digital format. I, as a (not in real life) drunken Burlesque lassie named Tipsy St. Swingsteen, really made a huge booty asshole out of myself. I was all parts horrified, shocked, in awe and impressed that I was ever able to do those moves and take my top off in public. It was odd because, as I watched it, I sorta forgot it was me. And then remembered THIS IS ME, and watched, as what little shred of dignity I have had washed away in a sea of sticky liquor made from apple juice and a hairspace that only the gods could create. Or The Hair could create. CHECK OUT THIS FACE, LADY!



I would do it again in a heartbeat. I HEART TIPSY!

How are you, Chuck? OUTSTANDING!

I figured something out today.

I like to be in control.

Of every possible situation in my life.

Except...you know...in the throes of passion.

But even then I get to choose who throes me.

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

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

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

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

Seriously.

Are you serious?

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never say no.

Rapists abound applaud TDS' newest developments.

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

Outstanding.

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

Which is rich coming from this girl.

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

Here...


Or here...


Here even...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm done.

With one final point...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scene played out in my head.

This man....


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


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

I was tripping on my daydream.

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


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

It all makes sense now.

It was indeed a typo.

A wonderful, personally significant, ridiculous, perverse typo.

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

Outstanding!