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

When I was seventeen, I went to my first real rock and roll show.

Yes, I like to act as if I've been in the scene forever, but your little Jenna, who is at once a professional fan and pretentious, unforgiving music critic, had at one time completely given up on anything remotely resembling contemporary music.

I listened to nothing but the local oldies station all through middle school. This was back when “oldies radio” meant the '50s and early '60s, and not any year remotely approaching the year of my birth in the early '80s. I didn't have any strong affinity for oldies radio, but a person has to listen to something while doing homework or falling asleep, so that is what I kept the clock radio in my bedroom set to.

At the end of eighth grade I was advised (more or less) that everyone my age listened to 99X, which I believe, at the time, was billed as “Alternative Rock”. Whatever that means. I remember the exact conversation sitting in the computer room in the hallway where you took all your electives, next to this girl whose name I will not publish but do remember. For some reason I perceived her to be cooler than me, and when she heard that I listened to Fox 97 (“Good times, great oldies”) she tried to chastise me, and fully succeeded. So I switched.

What followed that was a few festival type concerts, the kind of all day events with too much sun and overpriced food. I thought that's what live music was. I had never been to a club show, and I think I was completely ignorant of their existence. And while I generally had fun playing in the sun all day and into the night, throwing up rock hands and dodging the feet of wayward crowd surfers, I never felt like I had seen a tremendous amount of music. The performers at these shows were often hundreds of feet away and projected onto large screens at either side of the stage. I often wondered to myself why I was paying so much money to basically sit in the hot sun and watch broadcast television.

I distinctly remember, at 15 years old, lying in the sun, in the middle of the stadium at the International Horse Park, catching a nap during the Fuel set. Granted, Fuel isn't the most amazing band, but I was 15 and this was 1998. I should have been nuts for them. It seemed like everyone else was. Read More »

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!)

“For those of you who don't know, the man standing in the back is my father, Thom Tollerson”, [pauses as everyone who knows and loves Thom applauds], “and he taught me everything I know, including how to wear a skirt.” - Sarah Tollerson

106 West is open once again, ready to provide musical entertainment to the greater Winder area. Here are some pictures of the opening event last night. Also check out the extremely talented bands who rocked the house for us - Sarah Tollerson & the Big Fantastic, Mike Willis & the Escape Artists, and Leaving Araby.

Sarah (9:59:30 PM): so [your photos] will be famous!
Sarah (9:59:50 PM): unless you don't want fame and glory
Sarah (9:59:51 PM): brb

My sister, the rock star, is in the red and black today. Read it and revel in her awesomeness.

Things have been mostly good, even if there has been almost nothing to write about. Work, school, work, school, the routine only sometimes punctuated with sleep, hanging out in bars, or watching The Sopranos on DVD. I am the busiest I have ever been, with three fifths of my weekdays beginning at 8 in the morning and ending at 8 in the evening. I feel myself aging at a rate much more rapid than just a couple of years ago, burning the candle at both ends, as it were. But rather than shrink back from the challenge I find myself stepping up, charging at the obstacle that can, at times, seem like a brick wall. (Going full speed all the time causes many periods of accidental and unplanned unconsciousness, a factor that sunk me last week, academia-wise.)

Sometimes I wonder if I've taken on too much, gotten in over my head, a thought hastened by the naysayers (I shall not name names) who insist I can't keep up this speed for 3 to 4 more years, who grimace and give me looks and tones that say what the hell have you done? I smile sweetly I say that I'm certain that I can handle it, and privately I regard the whole situation as a trial by fire or a rite of passage, ultimately a pathway to some semblance of self-respect.

I also try to constantly remind myself that I could be working much, much harder with the payoff being much, much less.

In the meantime, I (usually) have weekends as a reprieve from all the madness. This weekend I saw a lot of people and consumed a whole lot of whiskey. Friday night found me drinking with my co-workers, which, besides yielding many free drinks also ended with me walking home with two roses purchased for me (from the “rose lady” that most Athenians are familiar with) by two of the aforementioned co-workers.

Saturday night I went to Sarah's show at DT's. A coworker of Sarah's was sitting with my parents, and just before introducing himself (Chris, a lovely doctoral student who was pleasantly fresh with me throughout the evening) gave up his own seat for me. As we shook hands, leaning in to hear names over the music, he looked at me agape and exclaimed, “You smell—You smell AWESOME.” I grinned and blushed like a schoolgirl. That was possibly the highlight of my interactions that evening, excepting my phone conversation with HGB, which is always a pleasure all it's own.

You know you are way too comfortable in your grown-upness when you proceed to get drunk with/in front of your father.

On Friday, the rock star played the big open mic finals at Washington Street Tavern, a place with cute bartenders and strong drinks.

You can see where this is leading.

My Dad was in attendance, and he had allowed a few other people to buy him drinks before I arrived at about 11:00. My favorite conversation of this evening? My Dad saw me pulling out my cash, counting and preparing to head to the bar. He looked at me like a six-year-old expectly naming off their birthday wishlist (let us not forget that my father doesn't drink often), a goofy, wide smile on his face.

“Jenna, I need another drink and I don't have any money.”

He shrugged innocently, the sappy grin still plastered to his face. I stared at him, dumbfounded. This was, in my tipsy father's eyes, a request to make the order more specific.

Giggling like a school girl, he offered, “I'd like a mixed drink, please.”

I relented. I do have some very favorable genetic material from this gentleman, afterall. “Long Island?”

“What's that?”

“It's what I'm getting, so it's what you're getting.”

“All right!” Dad laughed heartily.

I was on my second or third Long Island at that point. I had four or five before we left Washington Street. There are a few reasons for drinking that heavily, some of it needing to ignore things and people that are not going the way you want, some it it being a Friday following a long, exhausting week, but most of it being charming bartenders that wink at you coyly everytime you tip.

A couple other priceless father-daughter moments, both after all of my drinks had been consumed:

1. Dad, smiling uncomfortably: “Uh-oh, you just dropped the F-bomb in front of your father.”
   Me, too intoxicated to regulate: “Shit, I was hoping you'd be too drunk to notice!”
2. Dad, commenting on the 30 degree weather and the fact that I am only in a T-shirt: “Aren't you cold?”
   Me, smiling with delight: “I can't feel my fingers. I'm not worried about it.”

I know I went to the Grill with my father after that. I don't remember what we talked about.

I don't think I want to remember.