Before I begin, I’d like you to take a gander at the situation I’m writing from right now. Pictured below is Memphis, curled up on my arm, Wendell who is playing with his best friend, a beige pipe cleaner, and finally, Cade mining and crafting on the other end of the couch.

So you wanna hear about the first plan I tossed out the door once life on Earth sideways? Of course you do, what else do you have going on? Really, let me know. I’m curious.

I started 2020 with a real plan to be super conscientious and thoughtful about the stuff I brought into Supergenius HQ this year. I didn’t want to be a tool of patriarchal capitalism and just buy a bunch of pretty garbage to fill up the hole in my soul. I did pretty well up until the end of February, when I cracked and had to buy a lovely, vintage yellow enameled baking pan. From FRANCE! So you know it’s fancy. Then there was the Candy Dish Incident, and I never even mentioned how I pre-ordered all the Funko Pops from The Good Place.

So maybe I didn’t do that great. But I didn’t buy any stupid shit from Target and I was trying really hard to get books from the library or on my Kindle. Baby steps right?

That idea went right out the damn door the minute COVID hit. I’ve been panic shopping to support artists and panic donating like I have an endless supply of money and don’t have to refinance this joint at some point in this, the year of holy shit will we even make it to 2021.

Wanna know what I’ve gotten thus far in the panic? Of course you do.

A print from Amy Abts’ Etsy shop. Amy is an amazing artist/singer/reader who is also going through some shit. She recently had brain surgery AND is fighting pneumonia and her brother is fighting cancer. I’ve been meaning to buy something forever, but when Cade moved in I finally pulled the trigger. I wanted him to pick something out that we could have in the house that he liked and would make him feel more like a part of our home. He chose Crows. It’s a big hit with both the nephews.

Then I pre-ordered Samantha Irby’s Wow, No Thank You from Bookbug in Kalamazoo, MI. I was gonna order from one of the Twin City bookstores but the shopping interface of the one I chose was a fucking nightmare and I didn’t have the patience to deal with it. So I saw a link on Nora McInerney’s instagram and just clicked and was done. Nice!

When I read Electric Fetus had to close and layoff a bunch of people, I pre-ordered the new Margaret Glaspy. I’ll pre-order the new Liz Phair too once that gets listed.

Finally, I had to get the Big Coloring Book of First Avenue because I’d have probably bought this even if it wasn’t helping local musicians/artists/people.

What are you panic buying and/or supporting? Got any good coffee recs? Or artists who need some bucks? Put ’em in the comments.

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Okay, this is what I was talking about, Hold Steady and the Drive-by Truckers rocking the free world.

And in case you are interested, Let there be Rock

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I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone over the age of like four express pure joy in such a physical manner. At least not in a room filled with hundreds of people.

A few minutes later the tears spilled from my eyes when the two bands teamed up on a brick-loosening version of “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World.” It was one of those rare concert moments where the audience actually unites as one. The idle chit chat stops, the getting/drinking of beer ceases, and all attention is focused on what they are experiencing. No, that’s the right. Because focus makes it seem like there was a choice, and there was no choice. It was something that just happened.

At that moment the music and the band and the people and the building were all one. It was fucking magic.

The spell was broken when Sister #2 tapped me on the shoulder and leaned into my ear. “There will be no ‘Chill Out Tent’ tonight.”
I turned and nodded at her. “Nothing can follow ‘Rockin’ in the Free World.”

While my head was turned, I looked up to the people leaning over the rail on the upper floor. Up above us and to the left was a contingent of mid-fiftysomething grey-haired men. Maybe like six or seven of them. They were fist pumping and head-nodding with the rest of the crowd. Except for two of them. One of the grey-hairs had his arm around the waist of another grey-haired man. Their fingers were intertwined and together they played air-guitar.

It was the cutest, sweetest thing I’d seen all night. So sweet that it almost erased the bad memory of Giant Mom Purse whose Prada bag would knock into me every time she turned around to makeout with her date, an Andy Samberg lookalike who must have been about ten years her junior. The gay air guitarists kept Prada Purse from a beat down.

The concert on a whole was a-fucking-mazing. It is easily in my top ten concerts of all time. This was my first time seeing The Hold Steady and it makes me damn mad that I’ve missed so many of their shows. They brought it last night and it was a wonder to behold. And then the Drive-by Truckers, who I thought would be a bit of a let down after the Hold Steady, came on stage to kick an righteous amount of ass. The night was just, well, it was the kind of concert that renewed my faith in rock and roll.

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Liz Phair’s music means more to me than I could possibly convey and I feel its ingrained in my bones. Her music, her voice, is the soundtrack of me discovering my own sexuality and femininity in a world where I will never fit even the broadest definition of what feminine is.

The second time I was ever hit on was during a Liz Phair concert at First Avenue back in March of 1994. I was hit on once before during a really creepy incident at Valleyfair when I was a 6-foot, fair-haired 12-year-old. That was the first time I was ever hit on, and that just scared the shit out of me.

The second time was just as scary because I was pretty much still a clueless 12-year-old deep down inside.

And I was standing 6’5″ instead of 5’5″ like a normal girl. I was in my favorite red sweater dubbed the couch sweater because it looked like tasseled upholstery, trying to resist the urge to look at my brand new, first-ever tattoo (a dorky purple daisy under my right collarbone). I was 21 and besides an awkward peck from Rob Hobot in the front seat of my 1978 Ford Fairmont, never been kissed. I was standing in the upstairs bar of First Ave waiting for Skal to come back with the beer. While she was gone a blond-haired boy came up to me and tried to make conversation.

I had no idea what in the hell he wanted and pretty much blew him off at every turn. It wasn’t until he left, discouraged, that Skal told me that he was hitting on me. My mind was blown. So that’s what hitting on was? Of course, I just played it cool and shrugged it off as if I would ever deign to entertain such a dork. Inside I was reeling. I got hit on. I got hit on!

It was on that night that Liz Phair and the idea that I might just become a desirable woman became inextricably linked. I’m not sure if the moment would have had such resonance had it been a Gin Blossoms or Spin Doctors concert.

It was Liz and her music that supplied the magic. She was expressing things that many 20something girls in the early 90s were feeling but were too afraid to discuss or even admit to ourselves. Liz was boldy sexual, not afraid to talk about it, and even better not afraid to admit how confusing that was to her. It was confusing to all of us. Hell, it still is. Fifteen years hasn’t really changed anything.

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