Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 9.0 // Critical Darling, Commercial Flop

Each year, we at the house take an intimate look at the last 12 months, in a frighteningly frank way. This is to keep things honest, despite anything else that may have been written. This year it seems more important that ever, because we haven't been checking in as much.

As always, if you think you may be offended by cursing, graphic sexuality, talk about death, destructive relationships, or substance abuse, among other topics, turn away now. Have some kittens.

In addition, if you feel that such talk might ruin your holiday, save the read until after the new year.

And now, on with the show. Read More »

Overall, I had a really good birthday. I got literarily dozens of calls, text messages, and emails wishing me well. I got several “Happy Birthday” posts on my Facebook wall, even though I don't publish my birthday on Facebook. I couldn't get any work done, but at least I felt loved.

I put in my contacts, put on makeup and a nice shirt, and went to a birthday dinner with Emily, Melissa and Greg. Then we slowly made our way to Barcode.

And lo, this is where the trouble started.

Thanks to my generous friends, I consumed five drinks, including several shots, within the hour. By eleven o'clock the number was at about ten. After that I stopped keeping count.

The thing is, I wasn't trashed. I was drunk, I'll admit, making me more chatty, more bouncey, and a little dumber than usual, but I wasn't falling over. I remember most of the evening pretty clearly. Until about half past one am.

Then, in my memory, there is nothing. Nothing at all until Stephanie grabbed me and pulled me over to her car, which was parked across the street. (That was about half past two. I think).I remember getting out of the car, waving goodbye, and walking into my building. I don't even remember making it to my apartment door.

Next thing I know, it's mid-morning, and I'm naked, cold, and still drunk.

Yesterday I got the idea that I should take a picture of myself everytime I went to the ladies room at Barcode. Sort of like a drunken diary of progression. I thought it would be funny, and would give me something to write about.

But then, one thing lead to another, and between schmoozing with everybody that showed up and slamming down shot after shot, I mostly forgot about it, and only managed to get one picture, at about 11:30:

Well, that's what I thought, anyway. Read More »

On my popularity:

(Wearily) “Yeah, so I'm going to get some food, and then I have to go to Barcode, because if I don't show up, I'll get all kinds of calls and text messages: ‘Where the hell are you?’, you know?”

“Wow, I wish my whole body could be as in demand as your pinky toe! I couldn't get the hot dog guy to pour hot grease on me if I was freezing!”

(Sheepishly) “I guess I'm complaining about a problem that isn't really a problem, huh?”

“Exactly.”

In which I lay bare my dizzying intellect:

“You keep asking me why you can't pick up girls downtown. I'll tell you why—because instead of actually talking to them, you've spent your whole time here with your phone open text messaging your ex-girlfriend.”

“No, no, that's not it.”

On being Thom Tollerson's daughter:

“I love drunk text messaging. Hey! I still have your dad's number. I should drunk text message your dad!”

“Do it.”

“Naw, naw, I won't.”

“Go ahead! It wouldn't be the first time he got a drunk dial from someone who has played at 106 West. One time—I can't remember his real name now for the life of me but everyone calls him Pepino—”

“Pepino?”

”—yeah, Pepino from Davisstreet was in here and he said he was going to tell on me; he was going to call up my father and tell him I was out drinking! At a bar! My dad's attitude was basically ‘Eh? What else is new?’”

In which I feel vindicated for my hard stance on drunk driving and refusing to let someone drive last weekend:

“Thank you so much. Seriously.
“You probably saved my life that night.”

In which I am touched, in a weird way:

“I'm a little too drunk.”

“I wish you could transfer some of your drunkedness to me; I'm still sober.”

“I could throw up in your mouth!”

“You know what, if I could manage to keep it down, that would probably be effective.”

“We'd be like birds!”

“Yes!”

“And you could be my baby!”

“I'll be your baby anytime, Jackie.”

“Yeah, but you'd be my bird baby.”

On the afterparty and my being in demand:

“So, are you coming with?”

(Reluctantly) “Um, sure. Why not.”

“Kick. Ass!” (With accompanying high five).

We do this every year. Frank, R-rated discussion of friends, drinking, sex, music, money, illness, politics, and many other subjects follow. If you are a sensitive, delicate flower, I suggest you go elsewhere. Particularly if you are over 50 (if you baby boomers proceed anyway, I'll bear no responsibility for possible heart attacks). Read More »

... that I come home from the bar feeling like a million bucks.

But for whatever reason, tonight, I feel fantastic, like I could conquer the world with my sheer awesomeness.

“Jenna is a rock star. A rock. star.”

Singing the Beatles' “Blackbird” to myself softly in the Sam Deeds arranged style; going through old parts of my flickr for no reason and remembering things I had forgotten; Sarah Tollerson's solo performance giving me goosebumps; hanging out with Maggs, who comes to my bar just to see me; Happy Hour with Matt and Chris, who throw things a lot; Happy Hour with Ripley, who can pop it with the best of em, and who queued up my song without me asking; hanging out with Zach, who I've missed dearly; making a Happy Birthday video to send to Abie; all of Brett's damn enthusiasm; Stephanie adjusting my shirt to show more of my breasts, despite my insistence that maybe that button should stay buttoned; finding out I can go a damn long time without eating a thing as long as I keep drinking and smoking (breakfast of champions!)

My dear, dear friends; CB insisting that I go see Beck with him, and that it's his treat; fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; quality time with Zach at the beginning of happy hour; getting plenty of sleep; owning up to the fact that I was horribly unhappy at my old job, and even though I have no money now, I somehow still feel like the luckiest girl in the world

I had a crazy dream last night where I went to see Bob Dylan play in a high school gymnasium. The bleachers had been pulled in and stairs with ascending platforms had been build right in front of the stage, and plastic chairs lined up on the platforms. I sat in the very last row, my head almost touching the ceiling. Everybody except me, including the person I had come with, were dressed as goths. But in the dream it seemed perfectly normal that Bob Dylan had a large goth following.

For some reason there were like 17 opening acts. I never got to see Bob Dylan. I walked out when a guy wearing mustard on his shirt, singing about mustard, started handing out packets of mustard as if they were exciting party favors. All the goth kids seemed very excited about the mustard.

When I walked out I went over to concessions and Chris from Barcode was working. In fact, concessions was colored and lit just like Barcode. He pointed to me, said, “Jack and Diet?” and then went to work getting it for me. When he came back with the drink, I asked him what he was doing here. He looked at me like I was crazy, that it was the most normal thing in the would for him to be serving alcohol in a high school where Bob Dylan is putting on a show for goth kids. He told me then that he was cutting me off, that I clearly had consumed too much. I protested that I hadn't had a drink yet, that this was my first one, but then I started to get really dizzy. As I fell, Zach appeared from nowhere and caught me, and laid me gently on the ground. He felt my forehead and told me everything was gonna be okay.

Then I blacked out. Then I woke up. It took me a whole 10 minutes of being awake to sort out that it had been a dream and not a memory of last night.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays at Barcode; Alli's and Catie's brief visit; a light sunburn; tank tops; well-earned hangovers; making friends with certifiable bad guys; re-reading Hand Over Fist and getting it for real this time; feeling like I know every third person in this town, and being only six degrees from the rest; wallowing with the help of Elliott Smith

Many people have asked me how the month of sobriety went, or even stranger, “how the not-drinking is going”, present-tense. It made me realize that I never wrapped it up, never gave it a conclusion in the narrative of my life. Someday, I may have a publicist for this sort of thing, but for now, I'll have to make the announcement myself—and ramble out some thoughts on the whole matter. Read More »