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Category Archives: indianapolis

Aug 19 1 comments

Stranger in a Strange Land

or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Enjoy a Pop Concert

Here’s the thing I’ll say about mainstream pop shows: people get fired UP. That’s kind of nice.

These little indie rock shows I attend are amazing and intimate, but on some nights, the people who show up are…how do I say this…too cool for school, I guess? There is an art to hipster nonchalance and non-committal dancing – which is fine, that’s the scene, or whatever. But let me remind you that I’m the girl who drunkenly yells at people for not being awed in the presence of Harry Belafonte.

So I went to a Maroon 5/Train concert last night.

First of all, I was sober, which is the weird thing, because I really quite enjoyed myself (At one point in the night I actually exclaimed to my party, “Aren’t you proud of me that I’m not DRUNK right now?” Classy.) But this concert really ended up taking on a special meaning as a benefit show for the Indiana State Fair Remembrance Fund. Everything from the talent’s performance fees to ticket sales, venue cost and labor, catering and concessions, etc - all went to the cause. I heard the bands’ costs totalled at least $500k alone, and the Indy Star is estimating it will likely be a seven-figure fundraiser, which is awesome.

Bess and I grabbed our Conseco Fieldhouse dinner and were just about to sit down when the show started. We both wished for Train to be first so we could sit and eat. No such luck. Maroon 5 came on playing their latest single, and because this is Bess’s Song du Jour, she glared at the hot dog I was shoving into my mouth and yelled, “PUT THAT DOWN! IT’S MOVES LIKE MICK JAGGERRRRR!!!”

It was fun. Maroon 5 was fun. I just wish they’d embrace being poppy and dancy, instead of ending songs with these weird “rock” interludes. Hey Adam Levine, “This Love” does NOT need a five-minute guitar solo. The disco ball above your head should be your first hint. Earlier I claimed no knowledge of any songs beyond their first album, but was surprised to know EVERY chorus of every song, because of POP MUSIC OSMOSIS. A song would start and we’d be like, “I’ve never heard this song in my life,” and then the hook would come in and we’d mysteriously belt out every word. POP.

We started making bets on how long we were going to last through Train’s set. I withheld my guilty desire to at least stay for “Drops of Jupiter,” because it reminded me of being in love the summer after my high school graduation. (If you’re playing the home game, getting drunk on Nostalgia is a common thing we like to do here at TYK.) Train’s set starts with - I shit you not - the sound effect of a train pulling into the station, and Bess’s sister Carrie, who drove us, was ready to bolt. We were like “NOOOO GIVE IT A CHANCE?”, which is something I never thought I’d say about Train, ever (but also, DROPS OF JUPITER, shhhh).

The Train set was WEIRD - like, there were awkward audience participation segments, and this cello player danced the flamenco, and the lead singer did a yoga pose on a stage ramp? In the row behind us were three sets of teenagers, all couples, and during that ”Marry Me” song, one pair got up and started dancing. I was like, “You can’t be more than SIXTEEN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU KNOW NOTHING OF LOVE!” and then…Drops of Jupiter. Goddammit. Touche, Train.

I was entertained, though. The lead singer changed shirts multiple times and his pants were SO TIGHT! They also did a surprisingly great cover of U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” I’m a bitch for saying anything critical at all, really, because this concert was about something vastly more important than my music snobbery. Conseco Fieldhouse was full of sincere and supportive hoosiers, coming together. Bottom line.

And this Hoosier pride is powerful. “HOW POWEFUL IS IT?” you ask. Well, dear readers, so powerful that I stood up and sang to what is perhaps one of my least favorite songs of all time, “Hey, Soul Sister.” I was ADAMANT about my hatred for it earlier in the night, but I’ll be damned if I was not the first person in my row telling people to get up and dance.

After the show ended, Bess turned to me and I poked her in the collarbone — “You tell ANYONE that I was dancing and singing to ‘Hey, Soul Sister’ and I WILL CUT YOU.”

…..

Hey, I just wanted you to hear it from me, first.

———————————————–

From WISHTV:

Donors can now text FAIR to 27722 to make a $10 donation.

Up to three donations ($30 total) may be given this way from a single cell phone.

The fund will benefit those injured in the stage rigging collapse Saturday at the Indiana State Fair, just before a Sugarland concert, as well as the families of those who died.

Donations can also be made online , or by mail; Checks should be sent to CICF, ATTN: Indiana State Fair Remembrance Fund, 615 N. Alabama St., Indianapolis, IN 46204-1498.

Oct 01 8 comments

Dialogue, books, indianapolis, television

Starstruck.

It’s not every day you get to meet someone from your Top Ten List.

For those of you playing the home game, I am a huge fan of Chef Anthony Bourdain. Like huge. When I found out the Indiana Humanities Council was bringing him and his buddy Eric Ripert to do a talk here in Indianapolis, I started counting down the days. And when I discovered I was going to meeting them? I panicked. My memory wandered back to the “Sufjan Stevens Debacle of 2009,” in which I experienced complete social paralysis around the indie darling. (I mustered the courage to tug on his hoodie and gave a quiet, “hey..” and he was JUST about to turn around when someone called his name. I bolted, while everyone in a five-foot radius cringed.)

BUT NOT THIS TIME. NOT WITH TONY, I had decided. I took to social media to ask what my icebreaker should be. The number one answer? “Put a boob out.”

Nice.

Last night I headed to Clowes Hall on the Butler campus with Bess, a talented cook in her own right and a Ripert-lover. We were giddy, giddy schoolgirls. By taking advantage of the presale, we were able to get really great seats about five rows back.

The two sort of interviewed each other, sipped on local beer, and then opened up the floor to questions. My favorite was from a little girl who asked, “When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

Bourdain: I wanted to play bass for Parliament Funkadelic.

Ripert: I wanted to be a Chef first. But I also wanted to be - how do you say - a Park Ranger?

I paid a little extra to gain access to the reception, which included a meet ‘n greet with the two Chefs. This is where I started sweating. I had spent the past couple weeks ruminating over WHAT I was going to say to such an inspiration to me. I watch No Reservations to escape to far-off places for an hour at a time, yes, but what keeps me coming back is his exquisite writing style. I would read his books and swear I could taste the food. On my daily commute, I’d listen to his audiobooks in my car and miss my exits.

When a woman handed me a post-it note and a sharpie and told me to write down what I wanted Tony to write, it came immediately:

Guys, this only slightly resembles my actual handwriting. A) I was literally writing this in the palm of my hand and B) I WAS SHAKING.

I took a deep breath and approached the table.

“Hi,” I said. “This is the one thing I wanted to ask you.”

He took the post-it and held it at arm’s length so he could read it better. (Only then was I reminded that this man who is on my Top Ten list is old enough to be my father.)

“It says To Jenn, with two N’s, and then write what is your one piece of advice for an aspiring writer.”

He took a pause, looked off into the distance, and put the marker to the page.

“If you can do that…” he trailed off, as he slid the book back over the table. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and nodded, as if to finish, “…you’ll be fine.” Sincerely I mouthed, “Thank you” and I think we had kind of “a moment,” which probably only occurred in my head, but this is my blog so I don’t care.

After that, Eric Ripert is going to be a piece of CAKE, right?

So this happened:

Me: Lemme just WHIP THIS OUT HERE (I pull out his massive book from my purse. He begins to sign.)

Me: And I’m Jenn, with 2′ns. (You laugh, but after 27 years of being 1 of 2349823423 Jennifers, you learn that people won’t remember “Jenn,” but they will remember “Jenn with 2 n’s”)

Me: I am SO JEALOUS of your birthplace! (he had mentioned that he was born in between Cannes and Monte Carlo, aka the French Rivera, aka, My Favorite Place on Earth Pretty Much. Prrrrobably could have articulated that differently.)

Eric: Oh yes?

Me: Yeah, I’ve been there a couple times. (as if to say, I know we’re among Hoosiers here, but I’VE been to EUROPE.)

Eric: …..

Eric: Yes, it iz very nice therr. Very beautifool.

Me: Yeah, not half bad, huh? (Oh my God, Jenn.)

Eric: New York Cittee iz nice, too.

Jenn: Yeah, I’m thinking of moving there.

Eric: Iz very nice.

Jenn: That’s what I’ve heard. (AWWWKWARRRD. Inner monologue: “You need to end this, now.”)

Jenn: HEY, would you mind taking a picture with me?

Oh well. At least we look good.

I went home and went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. It was very Audrey-Hepburn, I-Could-Have-Danced-All-Night. I kept throwing my head face down in my pillow and screaming, like the night of my first kiss.

Jul 19 0 comments

indianapolis, photography

Let’s Have a Ball and a Biscuit, Sugar. Or: Happy Birthday, Jordan.

A little over a year ago, Katie, Matt, and I made our rarely-trekked trek to Broad Ripple’s Alley Cat Lounge. I had too long sequestered myself up on the northeast side of the city, had just broken up with my live-in boyfriend of 3+ years, and had declared 2009 “The Year of Friendship.” I was determined to surround myself with the fun and fascinating.

“I texted Glasses. He’s meeting us,” Matt had declared on the cab ride up.

See, we’re always meeting “characters” in the various hipster hotspots around Indianapolis. We’ll have these brief, random run-ins with these personalities and immediately give them monikers for future reference: “Knee-Knocker.” “The Kid.” “Poop Guy.” “Eyepatch.”

In Spring of ‘09, “Glasses” was a new character, one Matt and Katie had met a weekend earlier at the same bar. Naturally, he was sporting a pair of plastic frames at the time - hence the name (hey, I’m not saying the nickname has to be ORIGINAL, just MEMORABLE.) The two of them went on and on about how cool he was, so every time the door opened, someone would inevitably whisper, “Glasses?…Nope.”

Finally, Glasses - or Jordan, as we now know him - walked into the Alley Cat and INTO. OUR. HEARTS.

They were right: He was a cool dude, who seamlessly became one of The Gang. Throughout that summer, we found ourselves saying, “Let’s see what Jordan’s up to!” By Autumn, he spent most Saturday nights on our couch and spent most Sunday days drinking with us on Mass Ave. By Winter, we were Secret Santa-ing and taking weekend trips to ring in the New Year. By Spring, he was coaching me on my boy problems and introducing us to his new love.

I thought about all of this last week, as I watched Matt meticulously insert 27 neon candles into a cake we had just made.

“Just over a year ago, he was Glasses,” I said. “And now we’re baking his birthday cake.”

I’m so happy that we get to.

Happy Birthday, Jordan.

Matt, walking with our cake through Lockerbie on our way to The Ball and Biscuit.

Dapper Birthday Boy and the Ever-Lovely Sarah D.

Indianapolis' Coolest Came Out to Play

Cake Blur, because I can't hold my camera still and sing at the same time, silly.

Happy Birthday. Love, Chief.

Jul 16 4 comments

Dialogue, indianapolis

20-Something Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town

On my way back from running an errand in Broad Ripple this afternoon, I took a less-direct trip back to the office (read: I have no idea what the most efficient way back is, so I just wing it). I was driving down 10th street in a general eastwardly direction, looking for some place to quickly grab some lunch. There are a lot of places on the east side I’ve been wanting to try — mainly shady dive bars that I wouldn’t step a foot into without a dude like Bubba around — but also ma-and-pa lunch establishments whose signs seemed to call out, “Here Be a Hoosier Treasure!”

That’s how I found myself at The Steer-In.

(photo by this guy.)

I saddled up to the small and cozy counter.

“You’re finally here!” bellowed the older gentleman occupying the corner seat. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“Hah! Is that right?” I shot him a smile over my shoulder as I slipped off my shades and took a seat. He wasn’t creepy; he was a harmless retiree looking for conversation.

“Them’s some fancy glasses,” he commented, pointing to my bright yellow knockoffs. “Where’d you come from? Hollywood?”

“Naaah.” I ordered an iced tea and flipped through the menu. “So what’s good here?”

“Everything. Everything is good here.” The man anchoring the opposite corner nodded in agreement: “I’m here every day. They got big, breaded tenderloins.”

I chuckled. “That’s so Indiana!” This whole experience was Indiana — the stuff of Mellencamp songs. This guy’s got an interstate runnin’ through his front yard, you know, he thinks he got it so good.

As I sat and waited for my carry-out, we talked mainly about death:

“I don’t want to be cremated. And I don’t wanna be put in the dirt,” he declared.

From four seats down: “Whaddia want, then?” The Retiree had captured the attention of everyone at the counter, this lunchtime table for singles.

“I wanna do like the Egyptians.”

I looked up from my tea. “You wanna be mummified?”

“I wanna be put above the ground in a crypt, like them phay-rohs.”

I smiled. He looked me in the eyes: “When you’re dead? You’re gonna be dead for a long time. You gotta enjoy your life.”

The door chime rang and focus shifted to a younger man in a white tee shirt, who sat down next to my lunchtime companion. The waitress approached his place at the counter: “You orderin’ sumthin’?” The way she said it - she must know him.

“No, thank you. It’s too hot to eat.” He looked kind of…weathered.

Retiree punched the Young Gun on his shoulder. “This is son number one. His girlfriend just broke up with him. She’s an officer for the Coast Guard in Koh-dee-ack, Alaska…. Traded him in for a bear, er sumthin’.”

I guffawed, then covered my mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s not funny.”

Young Gun shook his head. “He’s having a harder time letting it go than I am…. How’d you get stuck in this mosh pit?”

“Just meandered my way in, I guess.” The waitress came with my carry-out. “Nice talking to you fellas, have a lovely afternoon.”

Ain’t that America.

As I was walking out to my car, someone called out, “Hey…” and I turned around to see Young Gun. “What did you say your name was again?”

I hadn’t.

“Oh, it’s Jenn.”

“Jenn, I’m Jason. Listen, um, would you maybe want to go out sometime?”

“Um…sure…” I trailed off. I lack the ability to reject anyone in situations like this.

“Ya like motorcycles?”

I told him I didn’t know.

I gave him my number — not because I want him to call, but because it takes GUTS to run out of a diner after a perfect stranger, like they do in the movies.

Mar 10 9 comments

indianapolis

Best! President! Ever!

“Please, please, please? I MUST have a t-shirt from the gift shop! MUST!” I pleaded with my mother last Sunday. There, in the lobby of the Indiana State Museum, I had regressed to a sniveling eight-year-old.

We were there to see the Abraham Lincoln Exhibit s, “With Malice Toward None” and “With Charity for All,” and I was STOKED. Those of you who interact with me on a regular basis know that ever since the Sporcle-discovery of Ought-Eight, I have been OBSESSED with Presidents. My fixation has settled on one, however - Abraham Lincoln. The Sgt. Pepper of Presidents.

[Do you notice that's a thing I'm doing now? Every time I want to express, "My favorite thing is also the mainstream favorite thing, and I want you to know that I know that," I say "X is the Sgt. Pepper of ___." When I used this in reference to opera the other day, my friend Jordan said, "Jenn, most of the operas you hear about are popular because those are the good ones. Don't be ashamed to like Pavarotti." Point taken. So I love Abraham Lincoln. I'm going to shout it from the rooftops. ]

My interest peaked when I started reading this book, The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage by Daniel Mark Epstein.

You know what sealed the deal? The Deal of Becoming My Favorite President Ever? In the first like, twenty pages - LINCOLN CHALLENGES SOMEONE TO A DUEL. [fact check] LINCOLN IS CHALLENGED TO A DUEL. The fact is: A DUEL, people. Boom, Lincoln’d.

Truth: I love Lincoln for all the obvious reasons (slave-freeing, union-preserving), but also because he was an AMAZING writer. Also? There was a melancholy about him that I find beautiful and tragic and familiar. Being a history nerd and lover-of-Lincoln, I nearly exploded when I walked through the entrance, but let me tell you this: If there is a small inkling of a history-lover in you? GO SEE THIS EXHIBIT. I was moved to tears multiple times.

…NERDY MUSEUM SPOILERS AHOY!…

One of my favorites was a personal letter Lincoln wrote to the daughter of his friend, William McCullough. McCullough was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Civil War and was killed in battle. Apparently, Fanny became very depressed over her father’s death to such a degree that her family feared for her health and safety and asked the president if he would write her. This was intensely beautiful, and to see it in the man’s hand, well - yeah. Tears.
The exhibit also boasts letter correspondence between pre-president Lincoln and an eleven year old girl who wrote him, suggesting he grow a beard. The President wrote her a note back, and the water splotches on the letter indicate that she excitedly read the letter on her way home from the post office IN THE SNOW, IS THAT NOT THE CUTEST THING YOU’VE EVER HEARD? TEARS.
The Bible that both of these guys were sworn in on. TEEEAAARRSS.

[PS, if you don't follow White House Photographer Pete Souza on Flickr, I highly recommend it. He is an amazing photographer, capturing intimate glimpses into the life of our President. PPS I think Souza digs Lincoln too.]

A first draft of Walt Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!” = ME, LITERALLY SOBBING IN PUBLIC.

After all of that, I obviously had to take the prestige and dignity down a notch by convincing my parents to buy me these two items from the gift shop:

1) This janky keychain with a swivel pendant:

2) PRESIDENTAL CAMPAIGN SLOGANS MUG!

Seriously the highlight of my weekend. I think I might go back before the exhibit ends. Maybe to go pick up some history nerd guys. Yes.

Jul 15 5 comments

Oops, indianapolis

Arigato fer NUTHIN’, LADY.

Let me let you in on a little secret regarding sushi in Indianapolis. One of my favorite places to pick up a couple of basic rolls is this little Japanese grocery store/cafe called One World Market in Castleton. It’s nestled in a strip mall next to a now-defunct Linens ‘n Things, but let me tell you, it’s a GEM. In a city full of highly Americanized sushi rolls (the “Hoosier Roll” is a pork tenderloin wrapped in seaweed and then deep fried, right?), it’s nice to patron a local store run by Japanese people where Japanese people actually shop and eat. (My readers from “The Big City” are no doubt scoffing at this, but I must point out that the majority of sushi consumption in Indy = white suburbanites stuffing their face with California rolls in overpriced pan-asian restaurants.)

Yesterday on my way home from work, I stopped by and ordered three rolls for dinner. I also pondered just picking up like a pound of sashimi-grade salmon and going to town on it. (That’s right, I’m single, fellas!) I sat in the little cafe while my rolls were being prepared, and…. in walked the most gorgeous Asian man I’ve ever seen in my life. [Is that racist? Is it racist to make a point that he was Asian? When that is one of his defining physical qualities, and that he was very, insanely attractive?] When he walked in, the door chimes morphed into singing angels and he was moving in slow motion and every head instinctively turned to look at him. He was older, charming, and appeared to be very wealthy and important. When he smiled, the lady taking orders at the front counter was reduced to a giggling, stuttering puddle. (From my translation, obviously. Cough.)

I will call him the Asian Silver Fox.

After placing his order he sat close to me. The Asian Silver Fox smelled of heaven and rainbows and I had nothing to say. What could I say, really - in a store full of crazy, weird, wonderful Japanese things I could not read or understand? “How about these MOCHI BALLS?!”

My order was called and I approached the counter. I had ordered three rolls - which, yes, is a lot of sushi but I didn’t eat much yesterday and two rolls wasn’t enough and three was probably too much, but you know what, it’s no one’s business, am I right, I mean, can’t a girl just stuff her face with spicy salmon rolls after a hard day? Bagging my order, the woman asked, “How many sets of chopstick you need?”

The self-conscious part of my brain is weird, because I could’ve sworn that for a split-second, a very quiet voice in my head said, That’s a lot of food, just say you need two sets of chopsticks. But instead, the brazen-out-of-embarrassment part, the part that shouldn’t ever speak, ever, especially not in front of the Asian Silver Fox, said, “JUST ONE!” [Loud, annoying laugh.] “HEH! I NEED JUST ONE.” As if to say, Understand, lady? I’m a growing girl! She took a beat and smiled awkwardly before responding to my nervous laughter with MORE nervous laughter, and said, “Oh… OHHHH! GOOD FOR YOU!” as if to say, Wow, you are a fatty fatty fat fat.

I’m pretty sure the Asian Silver Fox chuckled and then the two of them made out after I left.

Pretty sure.

May 28 6 comments

indianapolis

F*ck you, Northside.

So I went to Michigan for a few days, and when I came back I didn’t have cable or internet, because both of those things were in Damon’s name, and he cancelled that shit. So I made a reservation for a technician to come between 12p and 2p today to re-install it, except that no one came, at least not until 2:11p when I was driving back to work and he wondered where I was and I yelled at him and then cried.

So I am writing this from the Lawrence library, which is most likely the most ghetto library in Marion County, although I’ve only been to one so far. In this county, anyway. Fifteen minutes ago I was turned away from the Fishers Library, the fancy, shiny beacon of book learnin’, when she realized that I actually lived in Marion County, and I tried explaining, I LIVE ON THE BORDER, IF I CROSS THE STREET I AM IN HAMILTON COUNTY but it was not to be, and she pushed some pink brochure at me about a $30 annual fee to visit any library I wanted but I’d need a marion county card first and I coudn’t yell at her because she had such kind eyes, but I definitely cried, because I was getting rejected by a library branch.

I’m at the point where I have good days and bad days, but it’s getting harder to fake my way through the bad days. It’s not so much a breaking down as it is a slow unraveling, followed by a hasty mending — knit one, pearl two, and so forth.

May 01 1 comments

indianapolis, music, photography

Record Store Day!

Stayin’ busy.

A little while ago, Katie and I went to the National Record Store Day activities at Luna in Broad Ripple. Photo share!

Luna.

Katie. She’s kind of the most adorable ever, right? See the dandelion in her hand? A stranger just handed that to her. Yeah, it’s a weed, but strangers just hand her flowers. It’s what happens. It’s a jolly holiday with Katie.

This is what we came for. I was looking for Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks on vinyl (Astral Weeks has become my new religion as of late). I couldn’t find it. But there was still much going on.

Like this awesome dog.

This is my new friend, Doug. Doug and his buddies were shooting interviews for My Old Kentucky Blog/ Laundromatinee.

Katie and I were interviewed, too, but we never did see the footage from this day on the websites. I’m kind of happy about that, because I know I said a lot, without actually saying ANYTHING.

I also went into a random tangent about the smell of old vinyl and the feel of dust on your fingers as you flip through crates of records….but is there anything better than that, really? (Answer: no.)