Ashlynn's Big Easy Birthday Bender

Breakfast is served in the sun.

 To celebrate the big 27 this year, I decided on a road trip to New Orleans in order to reconnect with sin and the devil and give high-fives to transvestites and street walkers.  My friends and I stayed at a great little B&B called the Olde Town Inn,  which was quaint and comfortable and had one hell of a courtyard.  I could have extended my stay until the end of summer. 

Here is where we had coffee every morning. 

The Marigny was an extremely hip area, a great place to get lost and look around. A few blocks down, we found this neat public art installation: 

My contribution. 

My favorite local bar was called "The John," where all of the table tops were oversized toilet seats. What I love about New Orleans is its attitude. The waiters don't give a damn, and the streets smell like a combination of urine and smoked boudin. 

Had the best time stepping on stage at The Spotted Cat with The Cottonmouth Kings, a great swing band that was convinced by Brie to let me intrude on their set and sing a Son House song. Quite a memory. Hopefully they weren't too annoyed by our half-drunk antics. Even if they were, they made my little heart full to the brim this night.



Oh, and did I mention the food! My favorite was a grilled cheese/boudin sandwich that we snagged at the New Orleans Roadfood Festival. Delish!

<------Oh, and look at this little gem I picked up at Jim Russell's Records on Magazine Street. My grandfather, Dale Gothia, playing with The Boogie Kings at Crystal Beach. What a find!

Great friends. Great place. Great fun. 

When I returned home, my grandmother had made me a giant pot of chicken and sausage gumbo and a chocolate cake, my dad gave me a hand-wrapped present (all of the mail that has been collecting at his house for the past months), and Kassafrass sent me "happy" flowers. I hope now that this funk is officially over. If I whine anymore this month, slap me. 

Omnombo

Onommycake

My dad's present to me.  Mail. : /

Happy Flowers from Kass

Houdini's Birthday:

     Today is Houdini's birthday, a day where it is okay to celebrate both magic and bondage. Go ahead, convince the one you love to let you tie them up.  Strangely enough, last week at The Texas Ghost Show I met Aron Houdini, who is a Straitjacket Champion and a Guinness World Record holder. Though I missed his grand escape (he wriggled free from a regulation straitjacket, while hanging  from a giant crane over Crockett Street, downtown), I met him after the show and decided two things: I could be the next female Houdini and I may have to marry a magician. Sheesh. There I go again. I knew I couldn't get through a blog post without some reference to marriage. 

     So, here is the problem. I'm tired. For proof, please note the total number of blog posts that I've made.  A whole three. I'm going to blame my lack of productivity on the fact that I haven't read for fun in months and that my thesis and my full-time job are crushing my soul to a pulp. Lately I have been feeling like a woman who has been sawed in half on stage (I think there is a song by Jenny Lewis that this line reminds me of). The sad part is that there's no magic left here, just an unlucky mishap involving a sharp object and a willing victim. Perhaps I'm just having one of those days where I want to take other people's good news, smash it up the size of a spitball, and aim it right back at any toothy smile that I see. Uplifting, I know. And, on top of that, I have friends that all seem to be busy making beautiful babies or creating inspiring art. Thanks a lot Jenn and Randy and all my fellow musicians for dumping on me like this. Anyone know any tricks? Something that involves bringing my corpse back to life? 

     I'm hoping my trip to New Orleans will be the answer: live music, a sweet ass food festival, and time spent with lovely ladies (my favorite Ginger!) and a swell fella that kindly took these photos last weekend for me. Check out his other work. He's stellar. 

    

Check out Mommy Ivy in the background. Hottie. <3
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Photos by Randy Edwards. 

Growing Up Ivy: Homeschooling 101

If you know me well,  you know that I had an odd upbringing and love to talk about it. I was home-schooled (insert scary awkward gasp here) until fourth grade when my mother's religious zeal subsided a bit, and she finally quit ripping the "guts" out of my TLC and En Vogue tapes: quite an achievement for the entire R&B community.

As far as home-schoolers go, my brother and I fit the bill. We never matched ( I still don't). We felt strange when confronted with other kids our age. We thought it was fun to learn bible verses and quote commandments.

Notice the mud on my feet and my awkward wardrobe.

Home-schooling certainly had its perks: Dairy Queen outings, homework on the roof, bird-watching, visits to nursing homes--armed with bananas and peppermints--, bowling parties with other home-schooled weirdos where we all sat around staring at each other. 

Imagine fifty kids like this poor guy. In one room.

Our "Cultural Studies" course consisted of watching (from the safety of our bean bag chairs / through the blinds with our binoculars) the traffic from the crack-house that filed up and down the street. 

Class was cancelled when it finally caught fire and burned to the ground. 

I'm not bashing home-schooling. In fact, I'm promoting the heck out of it. Who wouldn't want to create little minions that can spout every book in the B-I-B-L-E (cue song) better than the kids next door who are going to hell, I mean, public school.

Dear Mom, 

Don't be mad.

I love that we were home-schooled. 

It made me weird and quirky. 

Hearts, 

Ashlynn

I Heart Flannery

Well, it seems I've been reading too many Flannery O'Connor short stories again.  I can always tell when I've overdone it.  If you hear me complaining about the the lupus that I don't have, or if I start talking about naming my firstborn Joy-Hulga, it is definitely time to rip The Habit of Being out of my hands and tell me to get a life. I wish I could say, "Don't worry. I'm not going to go get a giant tattoo of a peacock on my arm to symbolize my undying love for a dead author or anything rash like that." Oh wait. Sheesh. 


I recently read Brad Gooch's biography, Flannery, and it really didn't help with my obsession. However, it did make me feel lazy and unaccomplished, which is how any great book or work of art usually affects me. It's strange. Even though I can't watch movies with violence, unless they feature zombies, I can stomach O'Connor's grim and gritty depictions of lost souls being offered a chance at spiritual life. O'Connor's characters get gored by bulls, drowned, murdered, and I can't get enough of them. If you've never read an O'Connor short story, you should be tarred and feathered. I would suggest starting with "Greenleaf" only because it is my favorite. Plus, if anyone is interested in the sort of "prayer healing" that Mrs. May despises, perhaps we can try it out one day. 


Future goals: live on a farm like this, dedicate myself to art, write well. Sigh.