On our drive to our Bryant Lake Bowl performance of Jukebox Stories in Minneapolis, the NPR station kept announcing every three minutes or so that there was a major storm warning—complete with threats of treacherous, quarter inch-sized hailstones that were bound to damage cars and shatter nerves. Having acclimated myself to Los Angeles life, I screamed in panic any time I saw lightening or heard thunder, as Brandon laughed in sadistic glee. His delight didn't last long because he realized the thunderstorm was going to hit big an hour or so before our show, potentially deterring people from coming to see us and leaving us to perform for the wait staff. That made me panic even more.
The storm didn't seem to be as bad as NPR anticipated (faux intellectual nutjobs!), so when we pulled back the red curtain at about 7:00PM there was a good-sized crowd of people in the cabaret-ish tables-and-chairs section in front and in the traditional theater seats in the back. It was a cool venue to perform in (I mean, it's in a fucking bowling alley!), the staff was fantastic (I wanted to do at least one of them), and the audience was terrific. I had read somewhere online that Minnesota was the most literate state in America (yeah, I know, right?), and as audience members they seemed particularly socially aware, politically conscious, open, gracious, and friendly. Perhaps a bit too friendly? I mean, wouldn't it have been something if some lady just decided to spit at us? But like that would ever happen in Minnesota. Minnesota Nice!
The grand prize was a Juno T-shirt, in honor of you-know-who (since this is her former city of residence), but we also managed to give away some crappy DVDs of movies I will never ever subject myself to seeing (suckers!). And I rewarded a nine-year-old girl with a High School Musical card and sticker pack because she was Minnesota-savvy enough to come wearing an HSM T-shirt and to understand that I can ridicule something and love it at the same time. (Hey, married people, look at your spouse—you know what I'm talking about, right?) Anyway, I suppose I shouldn't curse around nine-year-olds, but fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—like she's never heard that on the playground.
Thanks must go to the Minneapolis audience who braved the storm to show their love, to Brandon's mom who brought a whole bunch of people with her, to Jonny and Mommylap for demanding that we book the Bryant Lake Bowl, to the Food Network who added an extra layer of bizarreness because they were filming a segment in the restaurant there (and the show's host—some white guy with blond, spiky hair—was being mobbed by old ladies), and to the hot waiter who informed me after the show that Josh Hartnett hangs out there all the time. You see, in my world, these are the only kinds of things worth knowing.