This Christmas made me realize my mom understands me better than I realized. She gave me the Clash 7"s boxset and a Steely Dan CD. She also gave me some sweet knives.
My mother and my sister have a bounty of girl-items I don't, like a special curling iron, hair goo, a hairbrush. I just bought my first hairdryer this month and it was like a world opened up to me. When I am here I am possessed by the need to use and master these tools, to use all the shining and poofing and curling things, and the results have been a great success, and mostly popular looks of proms c. 1963-- xmas eve dinner with the step-fam: a very lovely bouffant (my first), last night: a flip with a curl all the way around--the look I wanted in 6th grade curing a mild obsession with the Patty Duke Show. I am living a real holiday hairsperiment.
Last night some of us went to witness karaoke at the Triple Rock, which has transitioned from "cool punk club/bar" to punk dive par exemplar based on skeeviness factor of the womens bathroom alone. Girlgang names carved into the thick thousand coat black paint, tampons jammed into the floor drain, girls blocking each other while they take turns pissing in the doorless stall.
The only Mnpls folks I know anymore are the ex-pats that head home for holidays too, and are well outside of the mobius strip of gossip, though one of the people I was with was up on the scene reports, and everytime someone would get one stage to do karaoke, I would get the run down on that person's 06 drama. When paired with the extrapolated-Rorshach of their karaoke-song choices, I felt like I had never moved away, so well versed in the black-mopped oedipal wrecks doing "Sexyback" and their myriad scene beef, hook-up histories and due damage.
Minneapolis is a small scene for big city; just standing outside partaking in a pilfered menthol, I heard a girl offering up her recent genital herpes diagnosis to her three friends for discussion. They advised her to send an email update to the guy that gave them to her, along with photos and details of how her treatment and recovery was going--on a day by day basis. The other time I went outside, a beautiful girl stared me down, then inched closer and closer, in a housed totter-lurch, and leaned forward into the side of my head like she was going to rest her head on my shoulder. Instead she whispered very quietly "I don't like people." I didn't know what to say other than "That's too bad." I saw some dudes who used to be ska but are now crusties, but other than that it was ghost nostalgia and bad vibes to avoid reminicing on. I drove home to my mom's and realized half way I was taking the way I knew best: the 4 to the 21 to the 17c--the bus route.Posted by Jessica at December 26, 2006 04:44 PM | TrackBack