Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

Due to a rash of comment spam, I'm now only accepting comments from registered users. I hate doing this because I get so few comments as it is, but it has to be done. I have enough work to do without spending a bunch of time hyper-moderating a personal site.

Registration is free with TypeKey. Once you register you can use it not just on my site but on blogs all over the web. You can even set up your own totally sweet profile (or not).

I hope this doesn't discourage anyone from leaving comments, because they make me so very happy. Hopefully, I'll be able to loosen to restrictions again someday.

“I've gotta say Jenna, you're pretty stubborn. I mean, you're the one who only eats once every three days.”

Gumby continued with an imitation of me. “‘I don't need food; I'll just snack on my ego!’”

This morning, on the way to my car, I was approached by two gentlemen slightly older than myself, wielding a small hand held camera with a large, red-carpet-at-the-oscars microphone wired to it. They asked if I could help them with a project, and ask me “some questions about the birds and the bees.” Usually, I would laugh and brush off anyone trying to interview me on the street—I have walked past a fair number of petitioners, student film makers and news anchors in my short life—but something about these guys made me rethink just saying that I was in a hurry and dashing past. They smiled genuinely and asked politely. They just seemed so damn sincere.

I relented, and the camera started to roll. I immediately went into panic mode, as if I was addressing an entire room. Not good. Definitely not good.

“Did anyone ever sit you down and tell you about the birds and the bees?”

Well, I got a extremely weird speech from my mother when I was about 10? I think? The only thing I really remember about it was that she kept referring to my potential future husband—a person who was completely mythical at the time and moreover, I could not care less about at ten years old—as my “mate”. As in, “One day you will grow up and choose a mate.” Like the only thing my life was good for was growing up and popping out more little Jennas, to ensure the survival of the species. As if I were endangered, like a panda. She gave me the speech after cornering me while I was taking a bath, so I'm sitting in the tub naked, and I remember trying to disappear under the water so she would just leave me alone. She droned on for so long that the water got cold around me but I wouldn't get out because it felt safer than standing and getting even colder. I'm pretty sure that incident fucked me up for life.

“No.” Read More »

Geek talk with CB; lunch with Mom and Dad, because they think everything I say is hilarious and they make me feel like a standup comic; Hot Kathy (Demo) by Apes & Androids; EveryTopicInTheUniverseExceptChickens.com; Defaced; the photos of Franca Alejandra (warning: some are NSFW);The Scissor Sisters on Passions (which you've got to admit is just fucking weird; twitter (like having an AIM "away" message without the annoyance of actually using IM of any kind); “You move Smoothly!: Cute five-year old breaks out moves, kicks out jams, etc.” Let My People Come, The Musical; “Slab City. Several hundred people spontaneously built a city on desert land that was owned by the government, and continued to occupy it for decades despite the absence of any services that are taken for granted in civilization, such as water, power, gas, sewage, garbage, phone, postal or governmental authority.”

I am a music nerd. This statement is probably not a great surprise to many who know me. My taste is vast and idiosyncratic, yet discerning; I have about 7000 songs in my iTunes library, which translates to about 20 days (the majority of which I forked over money to obtain, thankyouverymuch).

All this asshole hipster posturing is to say, I have a number of smart playlists to manage all this music. To make sure everything gets an even chance at rotation, if you will. (If you don't do this, you'll end up playing My Chemical Romance's “Helena” 680 times and never listening to anything else, because it's that good. I speak from personal experience.) A lot of these playlists depend on giving each song a rating (one to fives stars) so that you hear the songs you love more often, and the ones you aren't as crazy about a little less often.

Here's where it gets weird: I have friends that are also musicians. Several of them are represented in my music collection, and I feel a little awkward giving one of my friends a lower rating on a given song. What if they were to come over one day, and start browsing through my iTunes library, only to find that I gave a track they considered their opus two stars? How would that conversation go?

Actually, they are all sensitive creative types so they probably wouldn't confront me about it, they'd just go home and write a song about their feelings.

However, when I thought about it, I decided this whole senario was unlikely from the outset, for three reasons:

1. I don't think I know a single musician whose first impulse upon browsing someone's music collection is to make sure that person owns their record, so we can all listen to it right now!
2. I rarely let people near my computer, especially without my watchful eye.
3. It's my house, I get to pick the goddamn music.

Crisis averted via selfishness and paranoia. That's the Famous Jenna Tollerson™ Way.

... as to look this good when I'm old.

Transformed this photo.

I did a whole series of these back in the day, using a web cam photo (heh).

New design! If anything looks especially awry, hit Shift+Refresh.

Not really my best work, but it's something new anyway.

Me with Martin and Blake, my new friends in the armed forces.

While making time with Sam and Jason at Washington Street Tavern last night, I met these young men, who are in the Navy protecting our asses.

They were some of the most hilarious drunks that I have ever met. I haven't been that entertained in quite a long time. In the words of Blake, “Do you feel safe, having met Martin?”

They are coming back to town in April and we are so going to hang.

Pictures from last night on flickr.

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).