Jessi Klein’s NotBlog

There’s this old standard, “After You’ve Gone”, that is one of my most favorite songs in the world.  Its definitely my fave breakup song, (although props to Kelly Clarkson for “Since You’ve Been Gone”, which is frigging awesome and runs a close second), perfect to growl along to while tearing up your ex’s photo or getting drunk and weeping and eating cheese. 

I’m not totally sure when I first heard it, but once I did, it got in my gut so good I started collecting various versions.  Nina Simone has a slow burn badass version.  Bessie Smith does a stop you in your tracks big mama version which even on a scratchy old recording from the 20’s has a super satisfying Fuck You quality.  Ella Fitzgerald sings it smooth and jazzy.  And Dinah Washington does an incredible version that crackles sweet and dark like the top of a creme brulee.

But my absolute most favoritest version is by Fiona Apple.  Ah, Fiona.  Beautiful little weirdo genius.  The best way I can explain it is, she completely, truly, deeply gets this tune.  I don’t know who she’s thinking about when she sings it, but he screwed her over and she Will Not Ever Forget.  She captures every angle of the little narrative- the sweet beginning, which essentially is a “please, please don’t go” then moves on to the part that basically says, “I’m so upset with you - how could you do this?”; but the most hair raising stomach flipping moment is when she gets to the line, “You’ll feel blue, you’ll feel sad, you’ll miss the bestest pal you ever had“ and delivers a musical right hook,  a perfect pissed off punch that’s both wounded shout and accusatory hiss.  The acoustic version of giving this straying bastard the finger.

Thanks to the wonders of our best friend Youtube, you can see her perform it right HERE.  The song alone would be a joy, but watching her face (although it is occasionally obscured by some audience member’s crew cut) as she translates all the emotions is so beautiful and moving it makes me nuts. 

I am the last nerd on this train, I’m sure, but I am in an obsessive M Ward loop right now.  The Transfiguration of Vincent has turned me into a complete Gossip Girl, OMGing all over the place about this album.  I don’t smoke, and I don’t live in the South in a ramshackle house with a rickety patio and a view of the moon, but I wish I did, so that I could smoke on my Southern patio and look at the moon while listening to this. 

If you can find me a song that ties simple and pretty into a more perfect bow than “Voice at the End of the Line,” please pass it on to me as soon as you are able.  Likewise, “Rollercoaster” (on the album Postwar) is one of those sweet little love songs that hits you just like Cupid’s arrow itself, causing a rush of heartpoundey innocent yearning.  Thank you M Ward, for taking me on a trip to Swoonsville.

Thanks to all the lovely people who came out to Largo last night.  I have to say, in all my years, it was one of the most fun shows I’ve done.  Comedically.  And spiritually.  I got so much out of making a list of things I like, I highly recommend it as an anti-cynicism/irony exercise.  And it was quite a catharsis to talk about my adolescent love triangle fantasy involving Gary Carter and Tim Tuefel of the ‘86 Mets.  I feel lighter for having shared it.  (Oh, and thanks to the hilarious Zach Galifianakis for a last minute drop by which saved the day.)

On another note, I just wanted to give my BFF over at Moontree Letterpress a non blog shoutout.  Right before Christmas she approached me about the idea of a collaboration in which she would take my silly doodles of animals and make letterpress cards out of them.  I’ve been making silly animal doodles since I was a child. (I briefly doodled naked people in second grade, leading to an awkward trip to the principal’s office that went as follows:

PRINCIPAL:  Jessi, why are you drawing naked people?

JESSI:  I dunno.

PRINCIPAL:  OK.  Carry on, love.

Our principal was a Montessori educator from New Zealand who became a legend in his own time for the progressively creative school he ran.  When he died, PS3 was renamed in his honor.  Clearly, a man who lets you continue drawing naked people for your classmates is a genius.  Read his obituary here:  http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=990CE5DE133BF932A35750C0A963958260)

Anywoot:  I am drawing an animal card a month that you can check out over at moontreearts.com .  I am not telling you about them because of any fiscal profiteering angle, but more because I genuinely like (this is how you remember these things, by making the list) sharing them.  It beats all coinage, truly.  Becky does such beautiful work, I love everything on her site.  Checkit.

For anyone in the LA area this Monday April 14th, me and comedian/actor/genius Nick Kroll are doing a new show called Things We Like.  We are going to talk about all kinds of things that we like.  It has been incredibly fun preparing, because basically all I’ve been doing is sitting around and trying to remember the things in life that bring me pleasure.  There are a lot.  You should come and hear about them.  They are sweet and ridiculous.

Here is the OFFICIAL info.  As opposed to all the unofficial info circulating out there:

Since so much comedy is based on people talking about things they hate - airplane food, traffic, Jews, etc - Nick and Jessi thought it was time to do a show about things they actually like, such as the ‘86  Mets, hors d’oeurves and fat babies.  Featuring the brilliant MARIA BAMFORD, DANA GOULD and KAREN KILGARIFF, who will share jokes, stories, songs and monologues about things they like as well.

WHEN:  Monday, April 14th - doors at 8:00pm

WHERE:  Largo - 432 N Fairfax Ave

CALL: 323-852-1851 for reservations
THE BACKSTORY:

Jessi Klein and Nick Kroll met when Nick made fun of Jessi for tripping on the corner of Houston and Broadway six years ago.  Jessi  thought he was kind of an asshole for that, but was won over when he  bought her a drink at an open bar.  Since then, they have dated, become close friends and hosted an award winning comedy show  together.  The only thing that seemed to work of those three was the  comedy show gig so they’re doing it again.
 

I am engrossed in an article in this month’s vanity fair (the funny ladies issue)  about the era when the incredibly successful singer songwriter ladies emerged - namely Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon.  I love how these insanely gifted ladies were constantly getting laid by their starstruck fans, celebrity and otherwise.  There’s an awesome story about Warren Beatty showing up at Carly’s dressing room door and then following her back to her hotel.  He was insistant on fucking her.  Insistant.

I had a friend in town the other day and on our way back from the beach we started blasting Carly’s “Coming Around Again.” Ghetto style.  Open windows, top volume.  It felt amaaaazing.  We started talking about how a good “by the time I’m 40″ goal would be to just become Carly Simon.  Put on a poncho, drink some wine, frizz out the hair, have a tryst with some occasional lover and then come home to an overpillowed couch and listen to records while talking on the phone to your  best friend who just did the same thing.  There’s something about that specific, natural woman seventies femininity that I find so comforting, so familiar.  Maybe because it makes me think of my mom when she was in her thirties and raising my siblings and me.  She had the hair and the poncho and these really cool kind of yellowey sunglasses, and she smelled like some kind of sweet musk. She had Carly’s big smile and the cutest gap between her front teeth. 

I have also been listening obsessively to Bette Midler’s version “Do You Wanna Dance,” which I find calming in the same way.  Its a great sex song.  She basically makes herself come midway through the song simply because she knows she’s so awesome. 

There’s just something so sexy about these ladies, with their big noses and unconventional looks, powerful voices, and probably huge bushes.  I was in Beverly Hills yesterday with a friend at a restaurant and every now and then a little gaggle of skinny bitches would clomp in, their high heeled feet clopping loudly on the ground like hooves.  Like a bunch of skanky Bud Clydesdales pulling a wagon of cuntitude.  Ugh.  They should read this Vanity Fair article.  Take off the heels.  Grow out your pubes.  And try singing a song, you dummies.

OK, so I have been obsessed with Zooey Deschanel since I saw her in All The Real Girls, which is a really sweet and lovely movie, starring the equally lovely Paul Schneider (who is lovely too in Lars and the Real Girl, further film loveliness, if you’re on a real lovely bent…)  And then I found out after she sang so prettily in that shower scene in Elf that she’s had a cabaret act for years here in LA. And basically everything I’ve ever read about her just makes it seem like she’s a cool unique human being, as opposed to another carbon copy Hollywood wh-ore.

A few months ago, while home in NYC and staying in my parents cubicle sized “extra apt”, the one with the broiler/toaster perched atop the washer/dryer, I was trying to make lemonade out of the lemony fact that I did not have room to fully move my arms and legs by using my time to do some deep terrier style internet digging.  And one late pretzely night, on pitchfork I think, I found these demos by Zooey and M Ward.  One was a cover of “You Really Got a Hold On Me,” the Smokey Robinson song which has been one of favoritest favorites, ever since he appeared on Sesame Street to sing it to bashful, long eyelashed letter U (U really got a hold on me.  brilliant.)  The other was a song called “Change is Hard,” a kind of Patsy Cline-ish reflection on having done a man wrong and having to move on.  Anyway - these songs blew.my.mind.   Listened to them non stop, both in the pretzel room and out on the street, letting her voice float me along my day, and feeling like I wanted everyone to know about these two secret wonderful songs.

So now, months later, Zooey has released an album, with assistance by M Ward, called Volume One, under the band name of She and Him.  Please, please, check out this album.  Zooey wrote all the songs, and they are soulful and buttery and fantastic.  Some are kind of country, some are throwback 50’s girlgroup, and some are just what they are.  But the one thing I think they all have in common is they are great sing along outlouders.  Soundtrack to your lifers.  My dirty secret is I think I have the voice of a fucking nightingale [spoiler alert:  not true!]  and these are perfect shower belters.  As for her voice:  She sounds like a younger, saner, more normal, less pilled out, yet just as talented, Judy Garland.  You can listen to some of the songs as well as her interview on NPR’s Fresh Air here: 

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=89142844&ft=1&f=13

Then the other quick thing is I was just at the tailor down the block dropping off some jeans for hemming (I am the last one to be on the premiem denim hemming train) and the very nice but slightly strange tailor was showing me the options for how he could sew them.  We banter about this for a minute or so.  And then out of nowhere he looks at me and goes, “You have a really nice speaking voice.  Has anyone ever told you that?”  Um, no.  I tell him no, and think of also tacking on, “I love you.”  I’ve always cringed at the sound of my voice on tape (unrelated to how my singing voice sounds in my head, which is, again, sublime.) 

“Seriously, do you use it for anything?  Voiceover?” 

“No,  I just kind of use it for what we’re doing.  Talking.” 

He smiles.  I look at him.  He is about 66 years old, bald, overly tan, and wearing an atrocity of a tie ( an atroci-tie.)  Nonetheless, I would ravage him right here and right now, right behind the Mexican guy at the sewing machine who is eating his Chinese food and clearly bored out of his mind listening to all this horribly trifling flirtatious bullshit he must have to hear all day. 

But that’s all it takes, isn’t it?  One little unexpected compliment from a stranger to brighten your day.  SOMEONE THINKS I HAVE A NICE SPEAKING VOICE.

Yesterday I went into an office building in the Garment district.  Its a grey neighborhood, dirty and dusty from so many carts full of threads and buttons and hot dogs being pushed around all day.  I was on one of those perfectly square and banal little errands to pick up a thing I needed from a place.  I suppose the mix of feelings upon entering the building were:

1-a soft little happiness, due to the fact that I was finally getting this little errand done, and also because I was picking up the thing from a very nice person I hadn’t seen in a long while and that’s always good.

2-an equally soft but equally present little case of nerves, because no matter how many times I look at the piece of paper which has a building address and the accompanying suite number, I am always convinced I will end up completely lost in a rabbit warren of grey, soulless, identical doors.

Anypoop-

I get on the elevator.  And its me, and a normal looking woman about 30, and a normal looking man maybe about 38.  We each go to press our respective little number buttons.  It seems like we are going to have a mega normal ride together.

Then:

The girl, as she presses her button, says in a slightly exasperated, but not too loud voice, “Oh, this is so annoying.”

Because she’s holding her lunch, I assume she works in the building and that there’s some little glitch with her floor button or something.  Something pet peevey she knows about and she’s having a bad day and she just had to mutter out loud to herself about it.  I get it.  I’ve been saying things out loud to myself a lot lately.  Like I was in Rite Aid in LA a few months ago and this douchebag was yelling to his douchebag friend from across the aisle:

“SO GET A KEGLET! AND SOME HEINEKEN”

and then, without meaning to, I said softly, and completely involuntarily, but still audibly, “oh holy fuck.”

So I know what it is to say annoyed things through your mouth hole even if you’re not supposed to. 

But then she turns to me and the man, and very deliberately goes off.

“WHY do they still make the 13th floor the 14th floor?  Its STILL the 13th floor!  Its so RIDICULOUS!  What’s the POINT???” She gestures aggressively with her hand, which is holding a brown paper bag with a bagel in it.  (I don’t know how I know, but I just know there’s a bagel in it.  She seems like the kind of person who on her lunch hour, even when she doesn’t want a bagel, just thinks, ”oh it’s the easiest thing to do.  I guess I’ll just go to the place down the block and get a bagel, a-gain.”)   Anyway she continues:  “Everyone KNOWS its the 13th floor.  I HATE THAT.  Why are we still doing that? I mean, RIGHT?”

She looks at us.  The man looks at her and sympathetically says, “Society.”  Then she gets off with a final har-ummph.  Me and the man continue upwards in silence, but I really feel like I need to talk about what just happened.  I mean, maybe he agrees with her, and I’m not totally sure I disagree with her, but it felt like it needed to be discussed.  So I say, “Wow.  She really wants it to just be called the 13th floor, huh?”  He turns and looks at me, and it was like I could feel his relief flooding all over the floor.  “Yeah, right?”, he says, looking at me in the electrically connected way only two people on an elevator who have the same feeling about a recently departed third party can look at each other.  “Weird.  Its just a superstition.”  I smile and shrug.  “Yeah, I know.”  Then it’s his floor and he turns to go with a final friendly nod.  I say, “Have a good one,” which is a really satisfying thing to say to a stranger. 

I continue the ride up alone, weighing the debate about the elimination of the 13th floor.  Of course she is right.  It’s completely stupid.  But then there’s the part of me that thinks: Its nice. Its a nice thing.  The missing 13 button still puffs a sprinkle of magical childishness, a secret finger crossing as the answer to an old time jinx, into these dull old buildings, which otherwise can feel so tired and out of breath.

And if nothing else, it made three people who don’t know each other talk to each other.  And that feels lucky.

The other night I was going to have dinner with a friend in Brooklyn.  It had been awhile since I was on the subway at rush hour, packed in with my arm straight up holding the metal thingy and my bag scrunched between my feet to make room.  It was more uncomfortable than I remembered.  Except for my rush hour memory of a guy trying to secretly hump from me behind when I was nineteen.  I definitely remember that as being uncomfortable.  I give him credit for trying to be surreptitious and gentle, but really, I think we both knew he was kidding himself about how little hump pressure it takes to let someone know they’re being humped.  It’s almost none. 

Anyway, I really love the subway and in LA I missed it a lot.  I took the bus for awhile in LA, and I liked the fact that everyone on it was considered to be a loser just by virtue of being on the bus.  Like for everyone else in their mostly bullshit earth-hating Hummer cars, just SEEING the bus go by, and just SEEING people waiting for the bus, bummed them out.  Its like those new airlines that are all business class.  Its one thing to hate coach and want to fly business - its another thing to hate the very IDEA of coach so badly that it ruins your flight just to see anyone else getting on coach.  So I liked the bus in that way.

But it still wasn’t like the subway.  I like the jumble of everyone being on it.  Everyone having to see everyone else twice a day, having a little group hang out time.  We might all end up hating each other, but at least the hate is rooted in some visuals.  They don’t have to be reasonable.  I hate that guy’s face.  I hate that guy’s hat.  I hate those loud kids.  I hate that woman who looks dumb.  Fine.  But there are real details to back up the hate, as opposed to in LA, where everyone just drives around hating people in the abstract.  People who may or may not be wearing hats.  Who may or may not be looking dumb.

And then there’s the way your soul can stretch a bit on the subway.  Just because you have the time and there’s nothing else to do.  Yeah.  Your fucking soul.  Like sometimes I’ll do the thing where I look around and try to remember that everyone on the train was once a baby.  That’s a good exercise to do every once in awhile.  To look for the ghost of someone’s baby face in their current face.  It’s like those illusion posters where you have to stare really hard to see the dinosaur or unicorn or whatever (I have never once found the unicorn or dinosaur.  I fucking hated those posters.) 

The other thing I’ll do is look and try to guess who’s married.  I look at someone and then I look to see if they have a ring on.  Anyway, here’s the lesson you learn from this game:  it’s a fucking crapshoot.  Wanna get married?  Time to get thin and beautiful.  Or wait a second - hold on - maybe you better get started being fat and hideous.  It seems its primarily the people filling out the middle who are ringless - the average, the just fine, the just ok.  Perhaps proving that thing Picasso said (or was it Matisse?) about how that which is ugly can be beautiful, but that which is pretty will never be beautiful.  Actually, it doesn’t prove that at all.  I think what it proves is, I am the creepiest person on the train, always. 

So later I’ll write up the stories.

FIRST:  Quandry Alert

The other night I went to a show.  After the show, I went to the bathroom (”restroom” if you’re repressed.)  I had already put on my winter jacket because it’s raining pure ice balls outside.  I was happy that there was no line and that I could just breeze in and out, which is very much not the case for most women’s bathrooms/restrooms.  I was so happy at the speed with which I could zip through my bladder exercise that I decided not to bother removing my jacket.  I had a split second thought that maybe I should, because it’s kind of long and my nightmare is that even the tiniest inch of the back hem could dip in toilet water.  But I decided I am a big girl who knows how to flip the back of my jacket up.

So I flip it.

And then I hear a clack noise.

I knew it wasn’t good.

You don’t want anything to fall on the floor in a public bathroom.  This wasn’t even a dirty bathroom.  But it doesn’t matter.  It didn’t matter.

My glasses fell in the toilet.

I really like these glasses.  I fucking love them.  I need to fucking wear them everyday.  I stood up, and my heart sank, like glasses falling into a public bathroom toilet.  But then I experienced the thing I’ve heard mothers can experience when their baby is trapped in a burning building or under a car.  Selflessness.  Complete bravery.  Adrenalin coursing through my veins, I reached into the toilet and pulled them out.

I proceeded to wash my hands for about thirty minutes, all the while feeling a peculiar, rare and yet familiar form of sadness.  The sadness of Toilet Taint.

Of course I washed the glasses.  Of course I did.  But in my heart, I don’t think I can ever wear them again and not think about the fact that they were in a toilet, where people piss and shit, and now they will be on my face.  I mean, even if they could be medically boiled - deep down, between the molecules, some poop or pee must have rushed in.  Don’t you think?  I haven’t made a final decision but I know myself and I know how I feel when things fall in the toilet.  I feel like I can’t love them anymore.  It breaks my heart, but it’s true. 

SECOND:  George Harrison Shout Out

So right now I am listening to George Harrison’s Beware of Abkco, which is the studio rehearsal for what became All Things Must Pass.  If you have blood in your veins or a heart in your chest or even just any kind of skin over your innards, I really think you need this album.

I first heard it driving around with my ex boyfriend and his friend in Sag Harbor at Christmas time, about eight or nine years ago.  This ex boyfriend was one of those people with a gifted and magical ear for music.  He could go into a record store and flip CD’s back and forth, clickity clack, and just seem to randomly pick a disc out, without particularly knowing anything about it, and it would always be great.  It was like a horse whisperer kind of thing.  It was great for me because I am exactly the opposite.  I want an impressive ipod full of secret songs only I know about because I have been innately cued into all that is cool in the world, but it has never happened that way for me.  I used to try to buy music without recommendations, but I inevitably would pluck the one turd even the greatest artist is capable of dropping.  Anyway:

We were driving around Sag Harbor.  It was a freezing cold afternoon, and the sky was the color of skull.  We put on Beware of Abkco and zoomed around in that guiltless way just graduated college kids and a girl on break could zoom, which was heightened even more by the fact that this was before I could drive, and there’s something about being a passenger when you can’t drive that feels especially wonderfully free, sort of a complete uninvolvement with responsibility for the spinnings of the day. 

On my emotional map, everything felt far from home.  We were in a rural, beautiful part of Long Island, a place of relative wealth, a place I hadn’t been as a child.  I was in an SUV.  I had never had a boyfriend, and now I had one I loved, and I leaned against him and watched the tops of the trees film strip past. And then there was this beautiful music that I had never heard before.  Humble George, the quiet unsung Beatle, the one with the really, really bad teeth. Aw, George.  The songs were infused with such painful sweetness and innocence that they made me aware, even in that moment, that I would one day be nostalgic for the perfect little loving cocoon of that car ride.

The relationship with that boyfriend ultimately, unfortunately, touched the toilet water.  But not that album.  I decided to keep it.  It’s fricking cold outside.  George still warms me up.  He really, really does.  I hope he’s warm too.

I was just walking home.  I see a cute girl in punky glasses talking to a punky guy (cuteness undecided.)  She says:

“Well, I’m not on Facebook so I don’t really know your world.”

More later.  I’m just absorbing this right now.  This is breaking fucking news.