tag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:/blogs/the-danger-diaries?p=1The Danger Diaries2020-10-30T10:21:20-05:00Hot Pink Hangoverfalsetag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/64666222020-10-30T10:21:20-05:002022-04-19T14:26:13-05:00Our Little Band Family<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/3ce94f55369651a3a20fb87e611b6ac351f279a0/original/img-1673.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It’s been a concerningly quiet fall for HPH. As much of the world continues to hunker down, we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for a signal that it’s okay to resume our humble sonic quest and hoping that we won’t be met with a music scene in crumbling ruin. People are still stuck home for the most part, but surveys are showing that you’re tired of live-streamed concerts. The release party date for our first full-length project hovers in limbo, and we are left wondering what the best next move is for an original rock band approaching its 4th year, but has yet to break… </p>
<p>Winter has always been tough for me- especially when it starts mid-October. I come from a long line of self-medicating ruminators, for whom daylight savings time brings out the darkest sides of ourselves. This year is extra special because there’s a pandemic <em>and</em> an election- both are equally terrifying in my mind. Despite being employed and happily married, with a fully stocked liquor cabinet, I’m feeling the doldrums rolling in with a force more crushing than ever before. My escape used to be a walk in the woods with a lyric book or a little weekend getaway to recharge the creative battery, but now, to venture outside of my little bubble is to witness polarization and hypocrisy on a grand scale. Here in the Divided States of America, many of us unfortunately appear to hate our neighbors and fear anything but cookie cutter reflections of ourselves. In a time where we should be coming together and elevating our fellow earth dwellers, what I’m seeing is a sea of floundering souls drowning in societal digression. </p>
<p>Fortunately, my bandmates and I have been finding more strength and camaraderie recently, than the day we played our first show together. Despite the current modeling of those featured in the media, we’re being vulnerable with one another in a time when vulnerability is seen as weakness to many. We’re highlighting each other’s strengths and addressing flaws with compassion rather than belittlement. I was raised to be a “sweep it under the rug” hard ass from the north country, but I’m learning that honesty and kindness really do yield amazing results! Hot Pink Hangover is about to embark on the biggest push of our career thus far and we’re doing it with a newfound enthusiasm and belief in our product. Get ready for some new stuff soon! With all the negativity in nearly every headline, we are going to push forward, keep creating, and keep being fun… because you deserve it. That’s why you decided to tune in to this pretty little shit show in the first place.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/0c96717bf302fdf44eabd3dc2d0433e4d79c541f/original/img-1111.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/64403462020-09-30T10:42:17-05:002020-10-03T13:30:05-05:00Dogma<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/cb46aecbe2762ea9a82d0bc11038a0289317dbec/original/highway.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Lately, when I think about humanity, I wouldn't say that I'm overtaken with feelings of warm-fuzzies. With political forces creating division among us, a pandemic making us fearful of one another, and a commute where it often feels like I'm trying to avoid vehicular manslaughter on the daily, I really needed to witness the heart-warming event that happened this week. </p>
<p>Danny Rampage and I were driving our little blue roach down highway 62 on Sunday morning. I was reading aloud an article I'd come across, which was drawing comparisons between the current pandemic to the 1918 flu. I was fascinated (though not surprised) to learn that the US government had done all they could to cover up the fact that anyone was ill. The first case of the "Spanish Flu" was actually reported to have inflicted an <em>American</em> soldier at a military camp. At that time, journalists caught saying anything even slightly disparaging about the war effort would be imprisoned. So it was never announced that sickness was sweeping through the troops. Our sniffling infantry was packed up and sent overseas to pass the pestilence on to the unsuspecting soldiers of Europe. </p>
<p>I digress. As I was orating, Danny suddenly yelled, "Oh no!" and pulled the car off to the shoulder. It was then that I picked my head up and saw a beautiful German Shephard, trotting towards the highway. Danny immediately jumped out of the car and chased after the dog, who was clearly lost and confused. Soon traffic began pulling over, creating a barricade. It was like a large-scale, choreographed roadside production. Nobody honked, nobody swore out their windows or elicited the use of their middle digits. Humanity behaved for a moment, like a well-oiled machine with one common goal- to keep this dog from getting smashed. People got out of their cars with dishes of dog food and leashes in tow, each offering up their strategies to corral the poor animal. </p>
<p>With one truck riding alongside the canine to prevent her from running back out onto highway 62, and a half-dozen pedestrians encircling her, she was led onto an entrance ramp- where she somehow avoided being hit on yet another busy highway. At last, one of the owners saw her and called her name. She picked up her head and ran with gusto over 6 lanes of traffic and back to her home. The group of compassionate citizens returned to their vehicles and will all have a similar heroic story to tell. </p>
<p>What I took from this "happy ending" experience is that maybe we all do want a greater good to prevail. We want to help, but with so much to fix, it's hard to know where to start. With fires and floods, diseases and desperations at every turn, saving a dog was the thing that seemed manageable in that moment. Maybe if we started to think of every challenge as a runaway dog heading for danger, we could save the world. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/93d6d019292f4781f14d82e44c41a7e327f46c90/original/anna-dudkova-asw9idv3hmm-unsplash.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/64394882020-09-22T14:00:06-05:002022-04-19T14:26:43-05:00Death Rattle<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/aba17c06b433212da56135938259ab1f4d390e74/original/instagram-06653.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The other night, we were on our way to a show in our trusty road vessel, Vanna White. It had been many weeks since any of us had stepped foot onto a stage and we were all in good spirits at the idea of performing again. We'd just pulled up to a stoplight when a blonde fellow sporting a military haircut and a furrowed brow jumped into our vehicle and belligerently started directing us where to go. We were already pushing our luck with regards to arriving on time, and now with this terrifying stranger barking directions at us, it was simply more than my nerves could bear. I gave him a look of death and hissed, "This isn't a taxi service, Asshole!" The unruly passenger grabbed Vanna's steering wheel and send us careening off the road and into an impound lot... the kind where those metal spikes come up out of underground grates and pop holes into your front tires. This was going to be a doozy for AAA.</p>
<p>Next, the blonde bastard ordered us all to get out, line up, and follow him. I was beginning to get the feeling that we weren't going to make it to our gig on time. He marched us towards a giant, but sterile-looking complex that resembled a kind of sports arena that might hold championship tournaments for those guys who like to play mini-golf in their office cubicles. We were soon informed that Vanna White had been reported as a stolen vehicle and we were about to substitute our concert for a court hearing. </p>
<p>We entered the monstrous brick facility and followed our captor into a carpeted amphitheater where a large crowd had gathered to witness our dilemma. Waitresses sashayed through a sea of eager spectators, serving up drinks and appetizers to whet the palettes of the hungry and curious. A fat judge hollered from his bench, swinging his gavel like an ape in the jungle, and hyping the crowd to prepare themselves for the spectacle soon to come. Before long, an even more sinister character than the fellow who had jumped into our van earlier approached us. Her drab uniform was pressed but her thin lips were wrinkled into a tight purse. She got right in my face and ordered us all to sit down and shut our traps.</p>
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<p>Davey Hazard, who hadn't had a drop of alcohol in years, looked over at me with a sickeningly disturbing grin and then made his way to the drink cooler. He began dumping mimosas down his cackling gullet and I knew we were doomed. "Davey!" I shrieked, "We all need to have our wits about us when they start questioning us. You can't get trashed in court and expect us to win this case!" But my pleas fell on deaf and drunken ears. Davey continued to smile foolishly and consume copious amounts of refreshments from the open bar. Soon he was crying. Lenny Renegade began speaking a panicked form of Spanish I'd never heard, and Danny Rampage was simply aghast at what was happening. He had a notebook out and I could tell he was trying to formulate a plan to save us, but our time was up. The prosecuting attorney had begun the opening statements. I was frantic. Suddenly, I had a plan to potentially buy us some time to prepare our case and perhaps hire a lawyer. I didn't let Danny Rampage in on my little ruse because I knew I would need him to have buy-in to what was about to happen. In the now nearly silent courtroom, I stood up, clutched my chest, and gasped for breath in an Emmy Award-winning performance of a heart attack. I gurgled and I thrashed. I heaved violently and let my eyes roll to the back of my skull. I carried on until I was convinced that the whole band thought I was dying and then threw myself into a heap on the carpeted courtroom floor, hoping for a miracle. </p>
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<p>When I woke up, a concerned Danny Rampage was there with me. We were back in our apartment above the pizza joint, whereupon he told me that my death rattle noise had really scared him. He said he'd just woken from a dream of his own and asked me why I sounded like I was having a heart attack in my sleep... I turned to him and said, " Good morning, darling. I'm thrilled it was so convincing." </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/64342512020-09-15T14:10:03-05:002020-09-22T14:00:30-05:00The List<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/642e1f9a0f29072cd8acca52dcd453eb1692b863/original/kelly-sikkema-n2toubkbsuw-unsplash.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Imagine a list. On this list are the people you could count on to bail you out of any situation, no matter how foolish or dire the request. You could call, and regardless of what you’re interrupting, or the distance required to save you, they would be there. No questions asked. Would you have anyone on the list? </p>
<p>I had a friend once who kept such a list. It was short. I can remember the day he told me I was on it. I had equal feelings of pride for being such a stellar friend, and anxiety- should he decide to interrupt my honeymoon because he needed to be broken out of a Beirut prison. Many things in life are bittersweet like this... I can remember my friend and I toasting to my newfound place on his special list and I immediately began to think about who might be on mine. It is also a very short list. </p>
<p>A few years later, this friend had a horrible series of misfortunes, starting with a cancer diagnosis. Under normal circumstances, the people on his list would have run to him to aid in whatever way they could. We would have been there to prove to him that we were honored and deserved to be on the list. But we all know that 2020 has not been normal by any stretch of the imagination. COVID kept nearly everyone on the list at home, checking in periodically, but unable to do much to assist, other than cheerlead from afar. Fortunately for this friend, there was someone who had been holding court in the number one spot on his list for 2 decades, and she was there. She was with him when he coughed up blood for the first time. She was there when he was frantic and hopeless, but she was also there when he was smiling and optimistic. She earned her spot on his list in a way that most people wouldn’t be able to stomach. She did it without complaint and completely out of love.</p>
<p>I forgot to mention, when you get put on the list- according to my late friend, you cannot be removed from it. So, deciding to put someone on the list in the first place must be done without an inkling of doubt. If you wouldn’t be willing to help this person relocate on a whim, or clean up their body fluids, or drive anywhere they needed you to in order to get the things that would sustain them, then you would have no place on the list. If you wouldn’t be willing to watch them as they traverse through a myriad of emotions, physical degradation, and ultimately take their last breath, then the list wasn’t the right fit. </p>
<p>In the end, there’s a good reason why his list was short. Because there was only one person who deserved to be on it. She steadfastly occupied her place on her dearly departed’s list with grace, patience, and dignity. She helped him accomplish his dreams. She thinks she could have done better because that’s the kind of person she is. But I know that she was an angel on earth for one of my dearest friends. I hope one day she will recognize that she WAS the list.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/1dd47dddd750b11e39ce44e5d9876a9d0836c125/original/josh-sorenson-rr3o58ceqha-unsplash.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63865942020-07-17T15:15:59-05:002020-08-28T09:19:14-05:00#63 Facebook University<p>Being that the world is in utter chaos, I take comfort in knowing that there are so many experts on social media who are offering complimentary guidance on everything from disease control to environmental policies. I threw away my collection of encyclopedias long ago but I don’t need them anymore because I have the gift of herd mentality and groupthink. Thank God for the ever-growing abundance of concerned citizens out there who have the answers to the world's woes! And they're even my Facebook "friend!" </p>
<p>As I eagerly lunge for my phone each morning, narcissistically checking to see who's engaged with the posts I've made, I almost always find myself on my newsfeed. While I scroll through the endless litany of people giving free advice on all the things I currently question, I'm in awe that I get to be part of this enlightening time in history. People with no medical background get to instruct us on proper health etiquette while we're in stores, out on the streets, and even in our cars, as we experience this pandemic. What I find most impressive is that the more time we spend online, reading people's posts, the more qualified we are to give valuable counsel. The knowledge I’ve acquired looking at memes while attending Facebook University far surpasses any of my failed attempts at higher learning. Even better- people who I <em>know</em> have never entered into the seminary stand at their virtual pulpits every day & preach. Satiating hungry followers with wise words, they spout their sermons and then gloat in their own popularity. MLK would be proud of the progress we've made, I think. Cyber experts everywhere are online indoctrinating themselves to be medical professionals, ministers, politicians, and influencers. Wow! The world really is our oyster... and here I thought we were all just a bunch of cogs in a system designed to keep us stupid & silent. </p>
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<p>When I moved to Macedonia in 2008 I didn't have a cellphone, I didn't have a Facebook account, and Instagram was just a twinkle in Kevin Systrom's eye. Christ, was I happy going through life, eyes wide open to the world, just taking in my surroundings. One thing's for sure... In those days, I never bumped into a tree because I had a cellphone in my face. I got my information the old fashioned way- by either picking up a book or through the oral tradition. I would gather with folks from every walk of life and we would sit, in-person, and share our thoughts passionately but pragmatically. We spanned the political spectrum. We were Eastern Orthodox, Muslim, & Atheist. We were young & old, gay & straight. We were members of the human race, genuinely hoping to gain some perspectives beyond our own noses. Even though we would convene at a smokey bar, in a country where almost none of us were originally from, we didn't make one another feel shame about our backgrounds or viewpoints. All were welcome at our table. I'm too frightened to sit at the Facebook table any more. Someone would probably either pull my chair out from under me for a laugh or pee on my food because my stance on birth control differs from theirs. </p>
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<p>Were it not for the fact that I have a business I'm trying to promote (our band) I would close all of my social accounts, donate my phone & computer to the nearest thrift store, and smile as I drove out of the parking lot. I would likely suffer withdrawals similar to those of a drug addict, but I know that in the big picture it would be good for my mental health to rid myself of the most virulent temptation I've ever known. I could get back to the basics and not have a little digital ball & chain innocently sitting in my pocket, yet choking my psyche. I've never claimed to be an expert on anything. Because I'm not. I'm no better than <a contents="Facebook Amy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xnw2QpkVKRY" target="_blank">Facebook Amy</a>. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63774752020-07-06T16:14:48-05:002020-08-21T14:53:46-05:00#62 Beer Can Museum<p>In search of a refreshment to enhance our carport grilling experience, Danny Rampage & I faced the heat yesterday with a sweltering stroll to the neighborhood liquor store. We gazed inside the beer cooler at the dazzling array of selections, and I noticed for the first time, that a hell of a lot of effort goes into the exterior of those cans. Going beer shopping is like going to an art museum.</p>
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<p>Until yesterday I had never paid much attention to the packaging around my favorite yeasty drink. Granted, it could have just been the heat, but I was utterly captivated by the artistry. Some of the cans were statement pieces- simply designed, yet demanding attention, while others were so intricately detailed that I had to get right up close to admire each & every nuance. I pictured an artist, clad in a cute little smock and a black beret, listening to avant-garde music, flinging paint from palate to canvas with abandon! This went on until Danny snapped me back to reality and we walked home to enjoy our purchase. I actually felt kind of bad throwing my cans into the recycling bin when I was done. I had a moment where I thought maybe I should save them and put them on display somewhere in our apartment, but then I decided that those are likely the types of thoughts that go through a hoarder's mind right before things get problematic... </p>
<p>As Danny & I sat drinking in the carport, I had to wonder if perhaps the beer can artists feel a little resentful about the fact that they're essentially making visually striking garbage. Or maybe (like many artists) they're just happy to have their work on display for the public- no matter the fate of their designs. Last summer, our cover of <a contents="Rocketman" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/Dpp8TsFks4Q" target="_blank">Rocketman</a> was played during several of the MN Twins home games, yet there was no announcement that it was Hot Pink Hangover performing... In fact, we wouldn't even have known it was happening had one of our fans not caught it on film & shared it with us! Nonetheless, we were pleased as punch to be getting played in front of so many people, even if they had no idea who they were listening to! I scrutinized the can in my hand, futilely trying to find the artist's signature. It seems that until someone decides to invent Shazam for the visual arts, beer can designers will remain a mystery. </p>
<p>To help bring to light all the creators who both make the beer & design the alluring labels, I would like to erect a Beer Can Museum. I envision that it would be constructed from a large barley silo and painted on the outside to look like a monstrous, yet inviting beer can. One would grow thirsty just looking at it! Inside, there would be a wing dedicated to growler art, another to bottles & cans through-the-ages. There would be a featured brew on tap, where the artist who designed the label would be on-site, clad in a little smock & black beret, flinging paint & doing signings. It will be the happiest place on earth. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/a15f88304f54e497ea4c20020242a49c3b97c710/original/6f8fd8c4-a501-43bd-873f-dea4749fa42f.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63566322020-06-18T21:24:05-05:002020-06-22T10:38:37-05:00#61 Ink<p> </p>
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<p>When I was a kid, the only people I ever saw with tattoos were my dad's biker friends and the exotic characters I'd run across while leafing through National Geographic magazines. Each time I encountered someone with a body modification I was intrigued to be sure... and also usually a tad frightened. I didn't understand how the skin decorations got there. I pictured aliens coming down and abducting these poor humans, then splaying them out onto a palladium operating table, as lasers etched through their quivering dermis. I imagined this sordid branding was to serve as an easy identification- should a supernatural takeover ever come to pass.</p>
<p>As youngsters, my brothers and I would draw designs on each other’s extremities with magic markers, but that's as close as I ever got to having a tattoo of my own. While I was coming of age and saw more & more people using body art either as a means for personal expression, to honor their heritage, or just for shock value in some instances, I could never seem to settle on something that I'd want to decorate myself with forever. Many nights I contemplated it, as my friends passed around the homemade tattoo gun, drunkenly engraving their lover's initials & poorly scrawling crosses onto one other's ankles. I observed with the intent of a surgeon but I never did it. It's one thing to wake up hungover, it's another to wake up and discover some inebriate has bedecked your body with a misspelled quote... or that you've contracted Hepatitis. </p>
<p>Nowadays nearly everyone has a tattoo (or many tattoos) and I've noticed that the people who have them love to share the stories of their significance with anyone who expresses an interest. I remember when I started dating Danny Rampage. He was the first guy I had ever dated who had tattoos and as such, I saw myself as partnering up with a real badass! We spent an entire evening sitting at my dining room table, drinking cheap wine, as he described the history and meaning behind the many art pieces which adorn his body. I found it both interesting & charming. </p>
<p>The closest I've ever come to following through with a tattoo was when my grandma died. We were incredibly close and I wanted to honor her in some way. She was an accomplished painter and making art together was one of our favorite pastimes. We would spend hours in her basement- a glass of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, Bob Ross gently cooing in the background. Rather than signing her work with her initials in the bottom right corner of the canvas, she would paint three birds in the upper left. This was her signature. I thought that to keep her close, I would have three birds tattooed on the back of my neck so that she would always be behind me... guiding me. But I didn't do it. Maybe someday I will, but for now, I'll keep the needles at bay and live vicariously through those of you who have sat in the chair and received the ink that is now part of your personal narrative. I always love hearing your stories of why it's there. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/4f8729861ff0179997b1dfb75d2732e59052d35e/original/img-5041.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63455432020-06-11T16:29:23-05:002020-06-15T13:22:04-05:00#60 Too Soon<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/3c1c8356e97e5a265ea729c8023a3a049dd968e9/original/textures-11.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Over the weekend, Danny Rampage and I decided to try out one of the restaurant patios in Saint Paul, since they have just been allowed to begin serving customers again. You all know I love to cook, but after 3 months of making every meal, I was ready to eat something prepared by someone other than me! We were pretty eager to be getting out. This particular restaurant, a local favorite of ours, had converted their parking lot into a dining area with picnic tables placed at least 6 feet apart for safety. All of the staff were masked. Despite the freshly loosened restrictions, I sensed an underlying feeling of shame, based on the expressions and hushed conversations of the other diners... as if they were worried that they were being judged by passers-by for being out in public and unmasked. The scene was far from vibey, and the prices had been jacked rather substantially, but we were outside of our apartment, sitting in a public dining area and someone was bringing us our food & drinks- a luxury few have had the pleasure of enjoying in quite some time. Far be it from me to complain about price gouging or lack of ambiance given the circumstances. However, the hippie in me cannot remain silent about a different issue- the excessive amount of single-use plastic that this restaurant was showering upon their patrons. Had I known that with an order of 2 beers each, a shared burger, and an appetizer, we would be the recipients of 3 large black plastic to-go containers, 6 plastic cups, 3 plastic ramekins with lids, 3 sets of plastic silverware (each in a plastic sleeve,) and multiple ketchup & mustard packets- I would have stayed home. I cringed each time the waitress placed something before us, as it was all dressed in plastic. </p>
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<p>It would seem that if sustainability is important to you, now is not the time to be out enjoying the dining scene. I have to assume that this restaurant was either acting out of health code requirements which forced them to abandon reusable glasses & dishes at the risk of them being contaminated, or they just aren't in a financial position to hire on a dishwasher- since they are only allowed to function at a reduced capacity and outdoors. Either way, between the price of our meal, the low morale of the surrounding diners, the lack of ambiance, and above all- the overuse of plastic, we left pretty disappointed by the whole experience. I wonder if there will be enough people who give a shit about the earth like I do, who will neglect to patronize these places until they revert back to more responsible methods, or if the desire to be out, eating & drinking, and having things feel normal again will overshadow people's environmental concerns. The way I see it is, I've been cooking every meal for months anyway, so what's a few more? I'll patiently wait, while businesses hopefully regain momentum on some of the sustainability measures which were in place prior to “the sickness” wreaking havoc on the world as we know it and changing everything in its path. Tonight's menu: hamburger gravy and mashed potatoes, just like mama used to make! </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63336362020-05-29T15:00:01-05:002022-04-12T18:21:52-05:00#59 Parchman Farm<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/722be183893b9a1b55563bd065254e8fdeb4df2d/original/b-w1sic2l6zsisim1lzgl1bsjdxq.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>A blood-red sunset had painted over the Mississippi sky when our bus pulled up to the farm. Appropriate, considering where we were. Uniformed facility workers greeted us with smiles and a chocolate cake on a silver platter, while inmates tended to the fields & orchards just beyond a razor-wire fence. The more I learned about this farm, the less I had an appetite for cake.</p>
<p>Parchman was a place where young black men were sent to labor and to die. Built in 1901 by the very hands that were cuffed for petty crimes, then forced into a system of greed and corruption which would inspire documentaries, songs, and multiple lawsuits. A sentence at Parchman meant a life spent laboring on the maximum-security prison farm until sold to the highest bidding plantation owner. The more able bodies tending to their 28 miles of land or being sold off to white folks- whose status was based on how many "boys" they owned, the more profitable the prison became. No matter one's innocence, if you were a black man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, your life would never be the same. </p>
<p>It was 2004 and I was living with a quirky pair of professors who taught non-violence & peace studies at the University of Rhode Island. Their Victorian home sat in a small borough between Baltimore & Gettysburg. I was floundering and they graciously allowed me to coexist with them as I endeavored yet another failed college attempt. We would have jam sessions in their music room, where they taught me protest songs. We would eat hard shell crab with a wide variety of people, while trying to solve the world's problems. It was fun and it was enlightening, but clearly it didn't work because the problems... well, they still persist.</p>
<p>It was through these two that I <em>really </em>learned about the Civil Rights Movement. They were close friends with folks who had marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. They shared their experiences & sentiments with me, and ultimately invited me to join them on a tour of the south, where I would receive the kind of history lesson they don't teach you in schools. While traveling by bus from Greensboro to Memphis, making many important stops along the way to talk about the heroes who gave their lives for a cause greater than themselves, my naive & privileged eyes were opened to the atrocities our country has committed based solely on the color of people's skin. I'm embarrassed to say that until I stepped onto that bus with 40 or so other folks, I had never heard of a man named Medgar Evers. Now I'll never forget him. I stood in the driveway of a little turquoise rambler in Jackson, MS where he was shot for trying to end segregation in public schools the very night President JFK delivered a nationally televised Civil Rights Address. I work at an elementary school and just recently we've started conducting "active shooter" drills with our students. The Evers' kids had been practicing such a drill in their own home for years. They knew that in their case, standing up for what was right could very well get them killed. In Medgar's case, it did.</p>
<p>We ended our bus ride at the Lorraine Motel, the place where King was shot. It's now a museum and holds remnants of our country's dark & dirty past. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr himself was once reported to say, "this is a sick society" and today that seems to hold true on many levels. I've been told by people who were living witness to it that peaceful protests, sit-ins, and non-violent marches can produce the desired results and lead to change, but I've also been told that when people are needlessly and unyieldingly mistreated they'll reach a breaking point and an uprising will ensue. No matter your stance, injustices are ongoing and sadly, will likely be forever recurring. Decade after decade it's the same story with different names falling into the roles of antagonist and protagonist. To me, one of life's greatest tragedies is that as a human race we're so divided amongst ourselves. I'm no expert on anything, but I know where I've been and who I've met and I've heard them tell of their personal struggles and how fighting isn't always the answer, but also sometimes it is.</p>
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<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63226262020-05-22T16:59:49-05:002020-06-15T13:22:23-05:00#58 Pen Pals<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/62910c05ca5dbb3228d89407b57d1696966cce0f/original/3fbe1ef9-4d32-4495-8318-04ee3c54fe1c.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" />As I mentioned in the last entry, I've been doing some spring cleaning. While venturing into the depths of my closet, I came across a pile of faded letters and after pouring over their contents, I'm grateful to have lived a large chunk of my life before Facebook or cell phones. Those dusty envelopes hold meaningful sentiments from some of the dearest people I've known. They tell of places traveled, relationships nurtured, and experiences lived... of course, there's usually some dirty talk sprinkled in for good measure (my dear ones know their audience!). Nowadays, I'm as dependent on technology as the next person, but nonetheless, I can't help but romanticize about the days when people would take a wooden cylinder filled with graphite, press it to a piece of paper, and create magic.</p>
<p>In one of the old letters I found, the author made mention that despite living miles from a phone in the Alaskan bush- thus being unable to call anyway, he preferred written communication because of its permanence. Once a phone call has concluded, it's usually forgotten, but a letter can be around for a long time. My grandparent's 70-year partnership started with a letter. After my grandma died we came across that fateful correspondence while sorting through her things. The tattered stationery was filled with elegant cursive sentiments of young love and hope. Luckily my grandpa survived the frontlines, and the dreams detailed in that letter were transformed into reality when he came home from the war. But proximity put an end to their letter writing. </p>
<p>When my mom was a kid you could buy these little magazines that had a personal ad section where you could sign up for a pen pal from distant lands. She decided to write to a fellow from Australia. That was 50 years ago and they're still writing to each other on occasion. They write of births & deaths, of triumphs & tragedies. They know each other very well for 2 people who live fourteen time zones apart and have never even shaken hands. The same relationship could now be had digitally of course, but then there wouldn't be a chest full of letters to revisit and remember. If quizzed, I'm guessing my mom could likely pick her pen pal's handwriting out of a stack! </p>
<p>I'm not sure about you, but writing something by hand takes a lot longer for me than it does to type. Putting pen to paper is a commitment. Lately, as I observe all of the fear-mongering and hostility running rampant in the virtual world I have to wonder- if people were first asked to handwrite their thoughts before typing them up and making them public, would that be enough time to reconsider tone and content? Would they take a look at their words and rethink the urge to publish them? Would they decide that their ideas would be more useful as fire-starter than online banter? Who knows. I for one am going to go sharpen my pencil and try to write something that will hopefully be worth reading someday! Anybody looking for a pen pal?</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/19993f3590ef00d53cde75322271459011f109d0/original/1688807d-71f0-452f-ad1a-99ee84804eb9.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/63080312020-05-07T19:51:56-05:002020-05-07T19:51:56-05:00#57 A Macedonian Travel Log<p>Since I've been spending so much time at home lately, I decided to clean out my closet. I have a little "keepsake box", inside of which is proof of some of my life's accomplishments (should anyone ever care about them after I'm gone). This box has long been stored on a shelf, behind all my sweaters, out of sight and for the most part, out of mind. In amongst the musical memorabilia, tattered yearbooks, and old love letters, was a purple journal. I haven't been very good at documenting how I've been keeping myself busy for the last several decades and the older I get, the more difficult it becomes to recall that information. So when I found this dirty little relic, all covered in fly guts from using it as a swatter in the tiny apartment I was living in with no screens in the windows, I was curious what kinds of juicy details about myself I might encounter. I'm going to share a little passage from the journal with you. </p>
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<p><em>3/12/08 Today we decided to visit a couple of monasteries in Western Macedonia. When we arrived at the first one, which was purported to be run by all men, the little monk at the gait told me I needed to put on a skirt before I would be granted entry. I let out a little chuckle and curtsied to show that I appreciated his sense of humor, but rather than returning my quip, he opened a primitive-looking wooden chest and gestured inside at a pile of floor-length skirts for visitors like me, who evidently threaten their traditional gender stereotypes. I was outraged by this ridiculous and unnecessary request and refused. Since when were women in dresses the only ones allowed to enter God's house!? I could tell that my travel companion was embarrassed by my defiance, so, more for him than for the monk, I sighed and complied. </em></p>
<p><em>When we entered the chapel there was a pregnant woman slithering around on the floor, trying to squeeze her round frame underneath a low-hanging painting of some religious figure, which had been mounted in the center of the room. She was covered in sweat and chanting. I was equal parts confused and worried that she might overexert herself and go into labor and I would be expected to assist in delivering a baby. My companion told me that she did this to ensure good health for the baby. I told him that I had seen enough and would be waiting outside the chapel. As I departed I was quickly scolded for not walking out backwards. I had turned my back to the altar and that was a bad thing. I should have read an instruction manual before making this pilgrimage. </em></p>
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<p><i>Our next stop was an all-female monastery. I wasn't asked to don a skirt and the nun who greeted us was sweet as pie. She exuberantly told us a wild tale (in Macedonian) about the icon of a saint, which was created not by a human hand, but by the hand of God- and as such, any human who would dare lay a finger on the icon would lose said finger as a punishment. As in, if you touch this painting of this religious person, your finger will burn off right in front of your eyes. Wow! I wanted to give it a try, in part, just to show the nun and my travel companion that nothing would happen. But sadly, we were miles from the monastery when I was given the translation. </i></p>
<p><i>On the ride home, we decided to stop off for a relaxing picnic. We drove our borrowed car up onto an inviting grassy embankment right next to a babbling brook. It was so beautiful and serene, like a scene from a storybook. Serenity was short-lived however because soon the car began to sink as if it was engulfed in quicksand. We toiled in vain, frantically transporting large, flat stones from the river and shoving them under the muddy tires, but to no avail. We had no choice but to call a wrecker. This was mountain country and the temperatures were dropping as quickly as our spirits. At last, a tow truck from a neighboring town arrived, which is when the next catastrophe ensued. The wrecker's tow cable wasn't long enough to connect to our car's frame since we were so far off the road. The driver decided to risk pulling forward onto the grass and was instantly sucked in and sinking just as we had been hours before. He did manage to hoist the car onto the bed of his truck, but we weren't going anywhere anytime soon. A second wrecker was called.</i></p>
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<p><i>In the meantime, a truckload of young, testosterone-filled Albanian men saw our dire situation and rushed to our aid, heaving and grunting like wild boars. They did manage to actually move the wrecker a few feet, but it was clear that we needed more than their muscles and enthusiasm to get us out of this jam. By the time the second tow truck arrived, it was nearly dark. I was hungry and surrounded by people speaking languages I didn't understand. I had a small emotional breakdown. The second wrecker was able to free the parade of vehicles from their sludgy confines and we were left with a filthy borrowed car, a small fortune in towing expenses, and damaged pride for our stupidity. We did come away from the experience having learned something though... </i></p>
<p><i>Always leave an offering. </i> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62911902020-04-23T19:28:15-05:002020-04-27T14:46:34-05:00#56 My Hometown<p>I've lived a lot of places. My parents were fairly transient as I was being raised, and so I got to experience everything from a shitty old trailer house in Williston, ND, where my dad worked the pipeline, to a school bus rambling across the 2-lane highways of the midwest. My family spent many holidays in campgrounds, cooking our meals over a bonfire. Birthdays were celebrated in unknown lands, opening handmade gifts my industrious parents had made. They eventually took up house flipping, which kept us in one place slightly longer than before, but when the house was done and sold, we were back on the road. As an adult, I adopted that free-spirited lifestyle and lived it with abandon, but whenever anyone asks me where I'm <em>from</em>... There's only one answer. </p>
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<p>My family arrived in the little port town I call home when I was just 4 years old. I went to pre-school in a beautiful, historic brownstone building at the top of the big hill. That school had the best old wooden playground I've seen to this day. The magnificent structures are long gone, replaced with plastic, but I remember the pirate ship with the ropes & oars, and the little log cabin tucked away at the edge of the woods just off of the tennis court. The hours I spent lost in imaginative play on those dangerous old jungle gyms will forever be a part of me. I graduated high school right there, with 41 others, in the same building where I learned to tie my shoes and count to 10. Granted, there were several moves and other schools in the interim, but I ended my schooling in the same place where it started and there's something special to me about that.</p>
<p>My hometown is right on Lake Superior and so I got to swim in her cool, clear waters every sunny day of the summer. I met the captains, the fishermen, the hippies, and the entrepreneurs who made this little hidden gem someplace extraordinary. I've traveled to many gorgeous and amazing places, but none hold a candle to the town where I learned to ride a bike, where I got my first job, and where I still get excited to return to every single chance I get. Whenever I'm playing a gig, no matter what town I'm in, if I announce to the audience where I'm from, there's always applause from a handful of folks... It's not the kind of response you get when you announce you're a Packer fan, but the few who are excitedly clapping are doing so because they've been there and they know there's nowhere else like it. I'm proud every time I say it. "I'm from Bayfield." </p>
<p>When I think of the word "community" I picture that quaint little village and the people who live there. I think of gritty northerners who know how to work hard, play harder, and who would do anything for one another. I think of the artists and musicians who have made a living doing what they love (and maybe waiting a few tables on the side as I did.) The folks who have made Bayfield their home tread lightly, coexisting harmoniously with Mother Nature and protecting the natural beauty of a beloved place that has remained virtually unchanged for 164 years. But as I mentioned earlier... the secret is out. From June to October the population booms, as droves of tourists make their way down the cobblestoned streets, ice cream in hand, fancifully clad in island-inspired attire. During this time, the locals need to share their paradise. Just as there's a special relationship between the townspeople and nature, there's also a special relationship between the townspeople and the tourists. Without them, there would be no Bayfield. Not to be a negative Nancy, but the lake has been over-fished and the forests have been depleted of lumber, so were it not for the city folk who come to bask in its tranquil beauty, our charming oasis would likely become a ghost town. They come for pristine scenery, for delicious food, for unique art, and for live music.</p>
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<p>When I recount my music career, it all started on the narrow streets of a little northern port town. I had just learned to play the guitar and was feeling brave, so I stood there with a tip jar at my feet and I belted out a song. People stopped, and put some money in my jar. They told me to sing another, so I did. 20 years later, and with a debatable amount of success under my belt, I haven't forgotten that day I decided to occupy a street corner in Bayfield, WI and sing my guts out. Now the time has come for me to try to return my feelings of appreciation for the magical place where I got my start, by helping to <a contents="save their summer music series" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://paypal.me/BayfieldWiChamber?locale.x=en%20US" target="_blank">save their summer music series</a>. I'm no stranger to the fact that the arts are usually first on the chopping block when times are tough. Being that the future is uncertain & resources are limited, there is a very real threat that the "Concerts by the Lake" series will be cut. These live shows are a staple for locals & tourists alike and they could commence (in late summer) while still exercising social distancing (if need be.) I'm extending this idea to you... If music has ever helped you through a tough time, if seeing a live concert ever made an impact on you, or if you just want to help a good cause, now is your chance! The future is unknown at the moment, but eventually, we will get the green light to move on with our lives. When that happens, and I return to my hometown, I hope there's live music filling the streets, intermingling with the smells of berry pies and waffle cones. Because the Bayfield I know & love has always come with a soundtrack. </p>
<p>Donate to help save the music in Bayfield <a contents="HERE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.paypal.me/BayfieldWiChamber?locale.x=en%20US" target="_blank">HERE</a>. And if you're feeling particularly motivated, you can type "Concerts by the Lake" in the Notes section. </p>
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<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62792402020-04-16T16:26:43-05:002020-04-17T08:01:47-05:00#55 Mugshot (A contribution piece by Sister Rampage)<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/89acce3adb9dc37f43c423def7b5e4846f630de9/original/6e846f7a-726f-4f46-918d-1e1e9a50c3c6.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></em><em><span class="font_small">Our guest writer is an environmental and social justice activist, wine enthusiast, & chocolate lover!<br>She also happens to be our drummer's sister.</span></em></p>
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<p>A guy I know is dying. </p>
<p>I realize this statement is applicable to everyone, because in a way, we’re all dying from the moment we’re born. But this is a story about someone who is living out the remaining moments of his life, and his partner who is bearing witness to his battle against cancer. Imminently. In a time when the world is being swallowed-up with people wishing their quarantined lives away, this is a reminder about how valuable small moments can be and how people who are seemingly unsuitable for friendship can become unexpected inhabitants within one’s circle of fondness. </p>
<p>This guy, let’s call him “Mugshot,” is cool and mischievous. I’m sure he’s done something illegal at one point or another, so it seems like a fitting nickname for him. He’s sort of quietly cantankerous and on the nihilistic side of the spectrum, whereas most people tend to describe me as generally optimistic, outgoing, hopeful, goofy, and dare I say, “bubbly.” His sense of humor is pretty crass and I’m not sure anything really offends him. He doesn’t have much tolerance for superficial pleasantries, but he will wander deep into the weeds with you if you’re willing to go there. Our mutual contact, who tried to keep us as far away from each other as possible for as long as possible, was right to think that we were likely to be incompatible in many ways... Little did she know that I’ve always had a soft spot for curmudgeons. </p>
<p>What’s even more remarkable about Mugshot is that his partner, we’ll call her “Kidman,” is really cool too. That’s hard to come by. Stop and think about the last time you met a pair of people in which both parties were equally cool in their own way. More often, you meet a cool person and then you meet their partner and if you’re lucky maybe they’re nice, but usually they’re weird or an asshole. Not these two. They also both really like each other. That’s an even more rare find. I don’t really know how it happened or why, but Mugshot and Kidman decided that I was worth their time. They welcomed me into some of the more intimate corners of their life. I got to hear stories about their adventures. I got to watch them showcase their super advanced dance moves, which became one of my favorite party tricks. As an adult who remembers being bullied in school, the wounds of social rejection may have scarred over but they never really go away. So, Mugshot and Kidman deciding that I deserved a chance was a big deal in my world. No pretense. No special test I had to pass. Just, “Hey! Come on in.” </p>
<p>During this unprecedented time in history, I have looked back on my friendship with Mugshot and Kidman as one of my anchors in the storm. Some of my favorite memories from the past 5 years have been moments that included them. His smile, her laugh, their respect and adoration for each other, and how they genuinely show up, not just in proximity, but in their very beings. </p>
<p>As we collectively continue to navigate a world of physical distancing, social connection has become our new currency. Be like Mugshot and Kidman. Create little moments of authentic connection. Include people who are seemingly incompatible. Make small gestures because you never know how big it might feel on the receiving end. Do it now because none of us really knows how much time we have left. As Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Enjoy the little things in life because one day, you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.”</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62775792020-04-09T20:31:31-05:002020-04-13T14:31:30-05:00#54 A Resurrection of Traditions<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/44d5fe5921af6e470ddd007d8ee612ac65b59139/original/img-4791.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When I was a kid, Easter was my favorite holiday. My mom would painstakingly decorate our house with vibrant hanging eggs, cute little rabbits, & vases of plastic lilies. Her fabulous mod decorations haven't changed since the 1970s and I love that about her. Attractive pastel baskets full of peeps, Cadbury eggs, & trinkets would await my two younger brothers and me when we woke up, and it was the one day we could eat candy before breakfast. We would situate ourselves at the dining room table, the pungent smell of vinegar in the air, as we'd fight over who would get to drop those little colored tablets into the coffee cups. All of us were eager to see whose hard-boiled eggs would have the most striking dye job! Occasionally we'd even attempt the shrink wrap strategy, but that usually ended with burned fingertips, cracked shells, & tears.</p>
<p>While my mom toiled away in the kitchen preparing our Easter dinner, my dad would drive down to Best Buy and rent us a VCR, then we'd gather around the 14-inch television as a family, entertaining ourselves with VHS movies like Labyrinth, The Goonies, & Indiana Jones- while snacking on deviled eggs. After lunch, my parents would hide colorful plastic eggs filled with jelly beans, coins, & malted milk balls for us to uncover. They could be quite stealthy when concealing their booty, and there were times when a rogue egg wouldn't be retrieved. Years later we'd come across the faded relic and open it up to find that slugs had taken up residency next to Abe Lincoln. </p>
<p>Now that I'm a childless adult, and won't be passing any of these fond traditions on, I've tried to sort of develop my own grown-up version of the holiday. This year will be weird because not only am I a childless adult, hours from my immediate family, but we're also under a "shelter in" directive, so we couldn't go anywhere even if we wanted to... I've had to get extra creative. I'm still going to cook a meal, but it will be a modest dinner for two, spent staring into the eyes of our beautiful drummer. I've filled some eggs that I plan to secretly hide in Lenny Renegade's back yard so he and Mary Mayhem can have a little giggle as they uncover them. And Hot Pink Hangover is going to be hosting a special Easter egg hunt on our socials, so be sure to check in on us and join the fun. ;-)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/626a3c7bfd4a390dc5f16659b785537e52a9234e/original/img-4790.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I'm going to make some deviled eggs, but as far as dying them goes, I forgot to buy the coloring kit, so we'll have to either scrap that idea or try using acrylic paint and hope for the best... I'm not sure that my mom would be too impressed with how I'm carrying on her tradition, but one thing that will persist is that I'm going to eat a basket full of peeps while watching Labyrinth, and hope that Danny Rampage won't be too judgy to join me in my holiday fun. Happy Easter, everyone.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62689792020-04-02T18:51:09-05:002020-04-03T10:54:44-05:00#53 When Life Bites You in the Ass, Bite Back!<p>I once dated a guy with a mentally ill dog. It was difficult to be in the same room as the miserable mutt, because of the unyielding way he would snarl and foam at the mouth, maliciously gazing at me through the stainless steel bars of his kennel. Ultimately during these stare-downs one of us would always have to leave the room, and being that I was the one who was not in a cage, it was me that would retreat- keeping my eyes glued to the little monster, lest he somehow free himself from his confines and attempt to gobble my extremities. It was inevitable that eventually the dog and I would have our showdown. It happened one sunny summer morning as I innocently bent over to pick something up from the floor. My back was turned in foolish blind faith, when he silently sprinted towards me and bore his incisors deep into my skin- missing my nether regions by about an inch. My boyfriend's response to this crisis was to completely ignore the injuries I'd just sustained from the sneak-attack, and run to the dog. He coddled the nasty canine and stroked its mangy fur, while I stood and wailed, blood running down my leg. I iced my wound with a cold beer and cursed the fates for making me fall for a guy who loved his dog more than me. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f0719a0b1a5666299ecc058959fbe6a6a2e62b31/original/img-8282.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>That night I went out alone with the intention of drinking away my sorrows and coming to terms with the idea that I would likely die a single old maid with a beat-up guitar and a half-dozen cats at my side. I was feeling jaded and pissed off and was in no mood to converse. It was that night, I met Danny Rampage.</p>
<p>Though neither of us did much to impress the other during that initial introduction, our paths ended up crossing a few more times and ultimately the two of us wound up heading out on a tour together. Now, of course, I thought this mysterious, dreadlocked misfit was some kind of handsome badass who would passionately and convincingly lead me to certain emotional disaster... but I also kind of liked him, try as I might to shake that feeling. I mean, he was charming, talented, & so sweet- and I was as skeptical as he was handsome. In the end, I decided to count my blessings and enjoy the wild ride. We spent the fall playing basement parties, coffee shops, & bars around the mid-west and soon, a little romance was blossoming. I had my acoustic guitar, he had his cajon, and we would basically set up anywhere they would let us, and play. During the downtime, we would try out different restaurants, while sharing our inner demons. We'd stay up late and drink until we'd either cry or pass out and then fall asleep in each other's arms. I had it in my head that being in a band with a potential suitor was a combination that would be doomed from its inception, but it turns out that not all my intuitions are accurate. Danny and I ended up getting married and have been playing music together in various iterations for the last 7 years. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/638823c0e6ddb55ad1dc5c737a263420633d8d7e/original/img-2277.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Tonight (Friday, April 3rd) we'll be returning to our humble roots. The two of us will be performing a <a contents="live-streamed concert on YouTube" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/1EyWaAUjnoU" target="_blank">live-streamed concert on YouTube</a> with our old wooden instruments and a bottle of whiskey. It will be just like the good old days when we first met! Sometimes it takes a swift kick (or bite) in the ass to make you realize that you are settling for mediocrity when you could be treated like a queen. There are good things out there for all of us, we just need to be spurred on to take action and to recognize that we really do deserve happiness. Danny Rampage and I are going to try to help spread a bit of that sentiment tonight and we hope you'll join us. First one to drink 'til they cry gets a prize. ;-)</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62619072020-03-26T12:23:42-05:002020-03-28T14:45:38-05:00#52 Instant Gratification<p>My grandfather was a front-line machine gunner in WWII. He likely shot down more people in the 18 months he spent on the front lines, than I have sung for during my 20 years as a musician. Yet on his deathbed, he told my mom, grandma, and I that the most important thing in life is to be kind to one another.</p>
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<p>He and my grandma became acquainted while he was overseas. What started off as an innocent letter to a soldier in Germany, quickly became the kind of long-distance love affair they make movies about. As blissful as that sounds, I can imagine my grandma sealing a scented envelope with trembling hands, wondering if her beloved would still be alive by the time the letter reached his barracks. Those were the days when correspondence took faith, hope, & patience. It also gave people something to look forward to. A letter from a lover, delivered transcontinentally, and placed into the frostbitten fingers of a fatigued gunman was likely a feeling of excitement that none of us in this generation will ever know because we've been so spoiled by modern conventions. Until recently, patience has taken a backseat to convenience. Now that things are becoming less and less convenient for nearly everyone in the world, I wonder if we'll harken back to some of the primitive pastimes of yore and be all the better for it once normalcy returns... Whenever that may be. </p>
<p>I'm trying to count my blessings during this uncertain time. I still don't have toilet paper, but by God, I have a computer! Just last week, we were doing a Google Hangout with some friends in France. They were on week 3 of sheltering in (and were likely pretty shack happy) but nonetheless, we all had a happy hour together, while they put on a hilarious costume show for us. We were laughing, talking dirty, and doing it all in real-time! From Minnesota to France in a split second. My grandpa likely couldn't even comprehend such a concept. He was simply blown away by the invention of the microwave and was grateful every time he'd reheat his coffee. </p>
<p>My grandfather was a music lover. He told me once that he used to hum himself to sleep with "America The Beautiful" while curled up in a foxhole, thousands of miles from home during the war. I'd like to think he was picturing my grandma, thinking about the day they might meet, and imagining a life built together... As a child, I spent a lot of time at my grandparent's house. The centerpiece in their living room was a beautiful electric organ, which gramps would occasionally belly up to and serenade anyone within earshot. Not only did it appear to have an almost therapeutic effect on him, it was highly entertaining for me to witness this traditionally rather stoic Finnish orphan exuberantly booming songs from the 1930s and 40s.</p>
<p>Fast forward 30 years and throw in a "physical distancing" order for good measure, and music is still the thread that binds us together. I've seen my musician friends doing virtual concerts from their homes so that fans can continue to interact with them and show them support during this precarious situation. Although we're seeing a few of our liberties squelched for safety's sake, we're fortunate to have a platform with which to share our thoughts and our talents to a greater audience... For better or worse. In fact, Rampage and I will be going live for you next Friday night (April 3rd) so we can hopefully help lift one another's spirits and stay connected via the only conduit possible at present. I know we're fashionably late to the virtual party, but we'll be there with bells on so mark your calendars! In the meantime, let's do our best to stay positive, and remember my wise old grandpa's advice: Be kind to one another. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/7b3bead2117c778213faa1296d275107c90d4ceb/original/img-4729.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62550742020-03-19T15:03:02-05:002020-03-26T12:23:58-05:00#51 Ya Gotta Have Faith...<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f249d37e72c2afcdd9cbfb3eab33cbdfe799ec67/original/d8778b8d-9621-4cec-81d1-504957342a5b.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>In my lifetime there have been 3 memorable world events that have caused mass hysteria, which in turn, have brought out the very best and the very worst in humanity: Y2K, 911, and now COVID-19. One thing I've learned from these three experiences is that we Americans are generally not too classy in times of crisis. While the Italians do sing-alongs from their balconies, we're off storming the paper products aisles and buying ammunition. People are getting a bit feisty over the means to wipe their asses, and I'm one of the fools who's been purchasing toilet paper on an "as needed" basis, so things might get interesting around the Danger/Rampage household. Luckily I grew up in a little log cabin with no indoor plumbing and limited means, so the idea of hunkering down and using survivalist skills is not a foreign concept to me. <strong>Here are some tips if you run out of toilet paper:</strong></p>
<p>1. cut old T-shirts into strips and use those (a washcloth works well too) clean them in the sink with soap after each use </p>
<p>2. use coffee filters (yes, they're more spendy, but they do the job)</p>
<p>3. use magazines, old mail, or newspapers (this is what they did in my grandma's era) It may cause minor chaffing so have some Vaseline on hand</p>
<p>4. use adult diapers as opposed to the toilet (this option is both expensive and bad for the environment so it would be my last pick)</p>
<p>Though I do read the occasional article to familiarize myself with global goings-on, I rarely watch the news or read a newspaper. By shielding myself from the advice of the media, I've been relying on my ability to be an independent thinker during all of this and for better or worse, have been encountering things as they play out. I'm always fascinated by hive-mind antics. My first observation when I ventured out, is that the grocery stores are bereft of pasta, pizza, and potatoes. What this tells me is that folks are really into carbing-up before a busy day of working on their laptops and watching Netflix. If you have anxiety about not being able to buy bread, fear not! May I introduce you to Betty Crocker and her fabulous recipe book, full of timeless, carb-filled baking opportunities for you and your family to bond over, while you ride out the most terrifying cold ever to threaten modern times. Since your kids aren't in school, this would be a good time to teach them the practical skill of baking. Here's a good recipe for you first-timers. It's easy on the wallet and only has 3 ingredients- one of which is beer (sadly, the alcohol cooks out as it bakes):</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><span style="color:#e67e22;"><strong>Basic Beer Bread</strong></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">3 C. Self Rising Flour</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">1 12oz. bottle of beer (the cheaper the better)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">3 T. Sugar</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Mix all of these things into a bowl & dump them into a greased bread pan</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(or make a dough mound on a sheet pan for a more rustic looking bread.)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bake for 50-60 minutes at 350 degrees.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*I always pour a stick of melted butter onto my loaf before baking</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>On a more serious note though, this crisis is bringing people closer together in some ways- despite mandated social distancing. I've had many friends and family members reach out just to tell me they're thinking about me and hope I'm safe. I've seen families outside, playing together, making positive memories through this unfamiliar and unsettling situation. I've seen people helping each other and offering words of kindness and reassurance. I have some to offer up as well: We will get through this. Humanity is a strong-willed and creative lot, and we will be back on our feet eventually because that is what we do as a species. Through war, economic despair, environmental catastrophe, medical anomalies, and political oppression, <strong>we. always. persevere</strong>. I don't believe in God, but I believe in the power of the people. The human race is one of motivation & might, and I have faith in our ability to rise from the ashes of this devastation and build something even better. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62383172020-03-12T10:41:20-05:002020-10-10T09:56:42-05:00#50 Competition<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/cb4c7b2b27d11ecc09e5196ec9a0d16863d46e1b/original/instagram-2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I go to the gym a couple times a week in an attempt to blow off steam and so I can feel better about myself in the event anybody ever asks me if I work out. To be sure, my physical activity is (regrettably) minimal at best. I generally burn around 700 calories a week on the treadmill, which equates to roughly two and a half pints of IPA. I will easily consume that in one sitting, so some might say what I'm doing is a waste of time, but I call it balance. Anyway, I go to a low income community gym. Snap Fitness or any of those bourgeoisie facilities just aren't my jam. This is the Aldi of gyms if you will. Frequenting the workout room are salt-of-the-earth folk, just trying to better their physique in some way, while catching up on gossip with their neighbors. The day after the primary elections, I was there lifting some weights and became intrigued by a conversation that I happened to eavesdrop upon. It started with one man stating to another that not only had it been an exciting election night, but that two of the local sports teams had won games as well. That was where talk of the election stopped and the sports talk commenced for another 10 or 15 minutes. I just found it interesting that people would rather talk about sports than the future of our country. I suppose it is the safer topic of the two, but I've seen people get pretty heated about the judgement of a referee they disagree with, just as some do when entering into a political dispute. To be human is to debate.</p>
<p>It made me think about sports in general and how a lot of times we'll arrive to a venue to play a gig, and behind the stage is a big screen TV. Sometimes it can be like pulling teeth to get management to turn the TV off, so that people have the opportunity to watch the <em>LIVE</em> entertainment that is happening right in front of their very faces- as opposed to watching a screen, with a game broadcasting ant-sized players doing athletic moves on this field or that. It's a battle we rarely win, and until we play the great stadiums ourselves, this is the life of a bar band. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/308ca81769b350511e7abf90256237d72259184f/original/img-4654.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I happened into a local brewery the other day, and MN United were about to have a soccer match. The way that venue filled up with enthusiastic sports fans, quickly sliding into any available seat to get a glimpse of the action was something I've fantasized might happen someday when we arrive to set up for a gig... But sadly, it seems that music just doesn't hold the same allure for people that a good sporting event does. I've considered hosting arm wrestling matches during our set breaks or weaving a musical gladiator fight into our performance, but we all need better health insurance before we do that (hence the importance of the aforementioned primary election.) The bottom line is, people are ravenous for a good competition. <em>Thank God</em> somebody thought up the brilliant concept of a Battle of the Bands, so that we musicians can be competitive athletes if only for a night. Readying our axes & our sticks, and confidently marching ourselves into the ring, prepared to duke it through song... all of us hungry for victory. It's ancient Greece all over again! We are no exception and we want in on the action, so on March 19th, you will find Hot Pink Hangover on stage at The Fine Line, preparing for battle and a chance to play Pride In Concert 2020. We're going to bring our A-game and we hope you'll be there to witness a competition of monumental proportions. I'm also happy to report that there's no TV behind the stage at the Fine Line, so negotiating with management won't be necessary. ;-) Get your <a contents="Tickets" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://event.etix.com/ticket/online/performanceSale.do?performance_id=7087895&partner_id=240&method=restoreToken&cobrand=FineLine" target="_blank">Tickets</a> for the "big game." </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/dacb4720b84d1fe816e6b0e1f32edc5c97c94fad/original/img-8188.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62357092020-03-05T15:16:56-06:002022-05-04T15:53:44-05:00#49 Bidding (A contribution piece by Michael Prenosil)<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/94b7a605cb599ca6b6790b03d6d02226878e89b0/original/prenosil-photo.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(Michael Prenosil- author, poet, public speaker, & human rights activist)</p>
<p>I come from unwanted stock, not a miracle of life. I come from a place not many truly survive. From a grocery store of human flesh ripe for the picking and sold to the highest bidder. A revenue stream for the private in an effort to sell the procreational dream. I have seen the divide between the life that was made and the one that was bought. The struggling who lay a heavy head, and those who wear the crown. “What’s to come will be.” I’ve heard a lot, implying that our lives are already decided by the universe or a Godly will. If this were so, then I shouldn’t feel lucky... or like I cheated death every day the sun hits my skin. I should feel like this is my path and I shouldn’t apologize that others have less. But I can’t help feeling guilty. Guilty for the mother or family that hopefully aches in my absence. Guilty for not wanting to feel dirty. Guilty for not having to fight in the shit with the rest of them. Sickened by all of the opportunity and options I’ve been offered with no real consequence. A subsequent divide indeed from the life that should have been me. </p>
<p>Determined to keep going, I’ve suffered a lot in silence. Not wanting to be a burden to others, I try to take in the “life” that’s been given to me, yet I fear that I am never enough. I fill up my time with people and possessions to show I’m not alone, so I don’t <em>feel</em> alone. I surround my life with “reasons” to be places, or “commitments” I have to keep, so I can’t crawl back in my prison that waits for me. The one I built and labored over to protect myself from a world of death, pain, and hatred. From and towards this plain of existence I inhabit. A tiny infraction of an exponential universe like a seed floating to nature's new home. How could I ever find peace in this place? </p>
<p>All my accomplishments, all my dreams, the things I care about, and the ones I care for- could it be by design? Is the purpose to follow the prenoted composition and to sing the melody of its composer day in and day out, paying homage to accept this is it? No, I don’t believe this is me. I don’t accept these terms of decay. I reject the pressing future and demand to be seen. To be heard and understand that the past is not the beginning. To forge my existence and shape what remains. To let down my guard and set aside the key. To undo some of the torture that I’ve held so close to me. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This life is now my journey, vulnerable and free </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Expressing truth with every word </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Exploring the depths of what I couldn’t see </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">An unbridled reach for meaning, a binding decree </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To tell my story proudly </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And share what it feels like to be me </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In hopes you’ll do the same </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sharing your gift of knowledge </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Complete with stories and beliefs </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Changing this place for the better </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">By giving us something to read</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Find out more about the author, Michael Prenosil <a contents="Here." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://yourtap.org/urban-journal/" target="_blank">Here.</a></p>
<p>Submit contribution pieces <a contents="Here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/blog-submissions" target="_blank">Here</a> for consideration in the Danger Diaries. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62045332020-02-26T08:30:34-06:002020-02-26T15:44:38-06:00#48 One Year<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/eb7b4b070965117107cf3d577651815189ec4be0/original/img-4638.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>One year ago I had this hair-brained idea to document some of the dysfunction that goes on inside my head- partly to exorcise the demons in my amygdala and partly to see if some of my interpretations of life's nuances were shared by others. So I started writing down my thoughts & little personal anecdotes, and I published them here. I had zero expectations. Even if nobody read what I was blathering about, I took it as a personal challenge to stick to something- which has not been a forte of mine. I've always loved to write, but the idea that anyone (other than my mom) would ever care enough about my ramblings to pause the regularly scheduled doings of their own lives to read about mine was something I just didn't expect. Granted, I'm not making any monstrous waves in the blogosphere, and I'm certainly not getting rich over here at my keyboard, but I feel a sense of accomplishment... and I do have a few devoted readers. I've checked the metrics! I somehow managed to keep the promise I made to myself 365 days ago and have written a blog every week for the last year. (This counts as one, yes.)</p>
<p>Real talk though, I'm running out of things to say! So, I'm reaching out for your help. I know that some of my readers are also phenomenal writers and I'd love for you to consider being contributors to my callous but comical little column. I'd love to hear what you have to say! Tell me about a trip from hell that you took, or a personal battle that you overcame or are still fighting. Tell me about your favorite concert or an old family recipe. If you've read this blog at any point, you kind of get the crass and unbridled style... Today, I am excitedly opening the floor to you and your written creations! <strong>If you're interested in submitting a short piece with the intention of it being published right here, please <a contents="submit here" data-link-label="Blog Submissions" data-link-type="page" href="/blog-submissions" target="_blank">submit here</a>.</strong></p>
<p>Thanks again for your participation in helping the #DangerDiaries reach her 1st birthday! I am appreciative, humbled, & astonished that so many of you visit our website every week to read what I have to say...now it's your turn. XOXO</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62044882020-02-20T12:24:46-06:002020-10-10T09:57:07-05:00#47 When I Grow Up<p>In my brain, I'm still a youngster just trying to figure out what I'm going to do with myself, what my purpose in life is, and basically who & what I want to be when I grow up... The problem is I'm a grown woman now and I still haven't figured out the answers to any of the aforementioned questions I've posed to myself. </p>
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<p>When I was 12, I wanted to be a teacher. That summer I decided to gather all of the unsuspecting neighborhood kids together to sit in a mock classroom in our basement, while I subjected the poor souls to my self-curated curriculum. I taught math, gave spelling tests, I was the coach during Physical Education, you name it... I would hand out homework, and the fools would actually take it home and do it! Those kids thought they were getting a break over summer vacation... not if you lived on my street! Eventually, I actually did get a job at an elementary school, working in their after school program, which is essentially a glorified daycare program. This, in turn, led to a job as a kindergarten teacher's assistant, which -next to my server job that I talked about in <a data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/blog?p=13" target="_blank">Entry # 35</a> was my favorite job ever. The things that come out of the toothless mouths of 5- & 6-year-olds has to rank up there as some of comedy's best material. I could arrive to work in the worst mood ever, but as soon as I stepped into that classroom and saw those precious little snotty faces, I couldn't help but smile. The lead teacher in the classroom turned out to be one of my most valuable mentors in life and I adore her and learned more from her than she'll probably ever know. She's also like the pied piper for kindergartners. Magical. </p>
<p>As a teenager, it was settled that I would be a famous singer by the time I was in my early 20's. Well folks, my 20's are long gone and I'm still not famous (except to a few) and that is a painful pill to swallow. The older I get, the more difficult it becomes to convince people to take me seriously as I leap around the stage like a gazelle in my hot pink wig, singing about teenage angst, and bragging about my robust constitution for alcohol consumption. The truth is, my body hurts after those shows... but not nearly as much as a hangover does now. I used to think I was invincible to the aftermath of a long night of partying. Now it takes 2 days in bed to get right again. It's reached the point where I rarely overindulge anymore because the repercussions simply aren't worth losing 48 valuable hours of life over. How's that for rock and roll?</p>
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<p>At one point I wanted to be a food writer. I saw myself traveling to the most charming cities of Europe, and while seated at a white-linen table, I would pragmatically sample escargot, sardines, truffle buttered meats, and fanciful desserts. Once sated, I would get out my pen and write about how the experience had either tickled or offended my senses and it would be published in some renowned culinary magazine for my adoring readers to consume & digest. They would send me fan letters telling me that they could almost taste the savory sauces I had so elaborately detailed. I still might do this, mind you, but first I need to find someone willing to pay me for it! I also entertained the idea of being a personal chef, so if any of you are in need of those services, please hit me up. I make a mean rack of lamb. </p>
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<p>The bottom line is that being an old lady rocker isn't cool to me. I mean, of course Joan Jett, Lita Ford, and my goddess Cher all look & sound splendid- but they made a name for themselves when they were young. The way I see it is that because they earned their spot in rock & roll history during their youth, and earned respect in this fickle industry, they have license to continue on doing their thing until they start to sound like Johnny Cash and look like Betty White. Or until they get too senile to remember the words to their songs... whichever happens first. I don't get that same rite of passage because I never broke. There will come a time when I'll need to pass the mic to a younger diva and when that time comes, they better clear a spot for my wrinkled ass at a white-linen table in Positano, because I'll have my pen ready.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/62032642020-02-13T19:10:34-06:002020-02-13T19:10:34-06:00#46 Gear Head<p>My first car was a 1968 Chevelle Malibu. My dad wanted me to have something reliable, classy, and a vehicle that would take a beating- should I ever hit a deer or drive into a ditch, which I did. I'd been saving dimes since I was old enough to grasp the concept of sliding the shiny little discs into the slot of my tiny cash register-shaped bank, so when it came time to start thinking about car shopping, I was financially prepared. I had a few ideas about what kind of car I wanted. I personally thought I'd look especially great in a candy apple red sports car with a disco ball hanging off the rear-view mirror, and a bumpin' stereo to blast my Bowie... My dad evidently had other ideas.</p>
<p>One day he approached me to let me know that he'd bought me a car. I have to say I was pretty excited by this news, but I was also full of questions... What kind? What color? How much did it cost? He told me that I needed to be sensible about this. That he didn't want me flying down the back roads of Northern Wisconsin in some kind of deathtrap made of plastic. He'd selected something safe for his only daughter. Okay... I thought. As long as it was red, I guess I didn't care. He proceeded to say that he had cleared out my savings account and made the purchase on my behalf and that he'd be picking up the car in a week or two and I would see it then. I could envision it all so clearly. I would be the envy of my friends. They would beg me for rides, and I would feel so cool and liberated in my new little whip. </p>
<p>The day my dad left to get the car I waited in the driveway, mindlessly playing with gravel, sick with anticipation. When at last my dad pulled up, I thought it might be one of his practical jokes. His hand was out the window, as he waved happily at me, but I couldn't even fake a smile. I've never been good at hiding my disappointment. Here I was... my savings account completely depleted and my dad had gone out and bought me an old-fashioned, loud, ugly, boy's car... and it was BLUE!!! Christ, dad! This was all wrong! He excitedly told me to hop into the driver's seat and give her a try. I was dismayed, to see there was no stereo system as I slid behind the wheel. Now, I'd driven my parent's cars before, but something was different about the way this one handled. It wasn't responding to me the way other cars had. I asked my dad why it was like trying to direct a stubborn mule to get the car to brake and turn. He said it was because the car had been manufactured back in the good old days, before power breaks and power steering had been invented. Ah. I see. No problem. The other charming detail was that the car needed to have additive put into the gas tank every time I filled up because it wouldn't take unleaded gas. I had to measure out the red liquid and do my best to pour it into the tank, which was accessed under the back license plate. So all in all, it wasn't at all what I imagined when I pictured the vehicle that would get me through my formative years, but it actually turned out to be the perfect rig for me. </p>
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<p>I may not have been the "envy of all" over my new ride that summer, but I was definitely the envy of the guys in my sophomore class because I'd developed pipes like an MMA fighter, from trying to parallel park that boat of a car on the narrow streets of my hometown. Over time I made the most of it and actually grew to love the old beast. I drove her down iron mining trails, over railroad grades, and worse. She always brought me safely to and from whatever trouble I was getting myself into during my teens and 20s. There was room in her trunk to put several people, which came in handy when carrying under-age stowaways from busted college parties. Her floors were sandy from trips to the beach and she had a little second-hand cassette deck on her front seat, so I always had my Bowie at the ready. Eventually, my negligence went too far and it was best to sell her in hopes that someone would be able to resurrect her into a version of her former self. I've never cried while signing over a car title before or since, but I like to imagine she's still out there, hauling some free-spirited young girl to and from the people and places that will give her a lifetime of memories.<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/cc1a82ef0916d85cbe67724725fb43172eca3577/original/misc-2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/61970982020-02-05T11:30:27-06:002020-02-09T11:29:03-06:00#45 Our Big Break<p>It was a frigid February evening, and Danny Rampage & I had been arguing. He left to grab some drinks with colleagues and I, feeling frustrated & irritated, decided to go to bed early. I did my usual bedtime routine of putting in earplugs, donning a light-blocking eye mask, setting my phone to "do not disturb" mode, and turning on a loud fan. This is the only way I have a prayer of sleeping at all. I was just entering a dream state when I sensed a vibration. Knowing it couldn't be my phone, I assumed it was one of my neighbors and annoyingly flipped over, trying once more to fall asleep. Again, a damn vibrating noise prevented me from my slumber! I looked over to the desk where my phone was sitting and it was illuminated, indicating I was receiving a call. Now highly irritated, I picked it up and saw it was my husband calling. I answered, likely not hiding my displeasure. He sounded incredibly panicked on the other line. My first thought was a car accident... My mind immediately went to bloody, mutilated limbs & irreparable disfigurement. Bracing myself for terrible news, I listened as Danny Rampage painfully described that he'd slipped on the icy sidewalk and feared he'd broken his ankle. I'd never heard him sound so terrified so I grabbed my glasses and pulled the car around to find him laid out on a sheet of ice a block from our door. As I approached him, the first words out of his mouth were, "How am I going to play the release party?" It was a valid question because, despite my wanting him to come upstairs and sleep it off, Danny had a trimalleolar fracture in his right ankle. The one he plays his kick drum with. He couldn't really have broken it much worse than he did. He tends to go big or go home.</p>
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<p>I was scheduled to fly to Florida the night after his surgery to visit my aunt. Terribly conflicted as to whether or not I should stay to care for my broken drummer boy or leave him in a painful heap on the couch, I agonized, but he insisted that I go. We said a tearful goodbye and though I felt incredibly selfish, I left him in the care of his parents. His dad had just had surgery too, so his poor mom was the attendant for both. While I basked in the sun in Tampa drinking Vino Verde and eating stone crab, Danny Rampage spent a week in a drug-induced state, torpid and helpless as he adjusted to his newly bolstered limb now full of screws, pins, and plates. </p>
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<p>One of the many admirable qualities that Rampage has in his personal toolkit is that he doesn't really sit around and wallow in self-pity or expect anything to be handed to him without earning it fair and square. He was broken yes, but he sucked it up and he made the very most out of this horrible situation. When getting from place to place with a walker prevented him from being able to use his hands to do things like bring dirty dishes to the sink or do basic self cares, he attached a satchel to the walker and used it to carry things that he needed to the places where he needed them. He felt a small sense of liberation that he could now contribute more around the apartment. It didn't stop there. Next, he ordered an iWalk, which is basically a peg-leg. It attached to his knee and allowed him to walk hands-free again. He actually did a happy dance when he put it on. We didn't miss a gig. Danny Rampage learned every drum part with his left foot and I don't think our audiences even noticed any difference. Fans stepped up to help us load gear in and out of venues, and we felt more united than ever.</p>
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<p>Now a year after the fall, Danny and I climb mountains. We hit the gym together. He just did two 10 hour days in the studio, laying down his drum tracks for our upcoming album. He didn't complain of fatigue or pain- rather, he smiled almost the whole time. It's that kind of tenacity that caught the attention of a local production company who recently did a series of short documentaries on the members of Hot Pink Hangover. For Danny's piece, he talked about the trials and tribulations the injury forced him to adapt to and how it actually made him a better drummer... take a peek <a contents="here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/f7lRab_hCtw">here</a>. When I think about someone who fights for what they want, my husband is the poster child. I've seen it in many realms of his life. I am so honored to go through life with such a driven, motivated, ambitious, and able-minded person. He makes me proud every day. I hope he's proud of himself. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/82629668a4288145d444bbc1c511cd91990d1f4e/original/img-3018.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/61527622020-01-30T07:56:42-06:002020-02-05T11:54:20-06:00#44 Trophy Husband<p>Because I grew up poor, I always assumed I was going to make it up to myself by marrying into money. I had visions of lavishing myself with exorbitant gifts, treating myself to luxurious vacations, and being able to shop for new clothes, shoes, and accessories until the walk-in closets in my private wing of our estate were overflowing. I was ever hopeful of meeting a suave lawyer or investment baron who would be charmed by my humble upbringing and more than happy to share his riches with me. Never in a million years did I expect that I would marry an artist. I spent years engaging in self-talk to avoid getting romantically involved with people like me. </p>
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<p>The first guy I ever dated ended up murdering a girl, which was evidence that my judgement could use a little fine-tuning. Since then I've dated all types- businessmen, scientists, service workers, clergymen, you name it, I've sat across the table and played the size-up game to determine if they would be a good fit for me. Despite my cognitive aversion, I've always been irresistibly drawn to creatives. I'm turned on by how their minds work, and I love that there's usually just a little bit of crazy fueling that creativity. Nothing is more attractive to me than someone who can paint a beautiful picture or write a tear-jerking story or song. I'm a sucker through and through for that kind of emotional vulnerability, but I've always had it in my head that since I'm an artist, I should avoid being in a life partnership with another of my kind, because somebody has to keep the household running smoothly. Artists are pretty notorious for not having their shit together. Put two musicians together and my perception was that bills wouldn't get paid, the trash wouldn't get emptied, and various over-indulgences would ensue while we recklessly constructed our creative careers. Enter Danny Rampage...</p>
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<p>Here was a wild man with dreadlocks down to his ass, a big, sexy mouth, and a talent for many things creative. I was sunk. I tried so hard to ignore him and to dig up dirt from his past so I'd have a reason not to want anything to do with him. I tried to convince myself that someone as good looking as he, was bound to be a narcissist and a jerk, but the harder I tried to push him out of my mind, the more infatuated I became. We were working together on a solo project of mine for which I had offered to pay him a pittance to play drums and he had accepted, so there we were, preparing a set. After rehearsal one afternoon, he confided to the group of musicians who were gathered in my apartment that he was going through a bad breakup, and wondered if anyone would join him for a beer so he could vent... Everyone had other plans. I felt sorry for him, and agreed to the beer, grateful knowing that he was certainly not an option for me- being that he was on the heels of a breakup from a clearly meaningful previous relationship. I told myself that I would never be somebody's rebound relationship. It was settled. </p>
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<p>2 years later we were walking down the aisle. I can admit when I'm wrong... sometimes. He may not be rich, but he has filled my life with many riches that extend far beyond the monetary realm. We live a humble, but full life. I don't have a walk-in closet, but I have a man who would walk to the ends of the earth for me. We don't go on too many extravagant vacations, but we always have a blast traveling on a dime! Danny Rampage turned out to be the perfect mate for me. We're business partners, best friends, travel companions, creative teammates, and yes, bed buddies. We do everything together and still like each other (most of the time!) It can be a challenging thing to be romantically involved with your business partner, but so far we've seemed to make it work in all of the various musical iterations we've been in as a pair. I'm so thankful to go through life with him by my side, encouraging, comforting, and supporting me... It also doesn't hurt that he's incredibly handsome. ;-) If you want some more of the juicy details, check out the recent interview I did in this <a contents="short documentary " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/JrAIMPu-GWY" target="_blank">short documentary </a>by our friends at Inspirat.io. I'm so glad I gave in and had that beer with the brooding, mysterious drummer who won my heart. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/bf19f8f4023c5ec128d2846b5061f207e5ae3247/original/img-4205.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/61390922020-01-22T18:52:25-06:002020-01-29T07:42:33-06:00#43 Potty Mouth<p>When I moved to Eastern Europe, I can remember being both excited & nervous to try out my Macedonian language skills. My boyfriend and I were gathered around the dinner table for a meal with his siblings and his non-English speaking parents when I decided I would try to address the family in their native tongue. With a few months of language classes under my belt and a couple shots of Ouzo on-board, I thought I was ready to make some genuine connections through my newfound vocabulary. In an attempt to compliment his mother on her cooking, I wound up accidentally telling her that she had good tasting poop. I could see by the bewildered expressions on everyone's face, that I had said something terribly wrong. They were forgiving of my mistake, but I was humiliated and It took a long time for me to muster up the courage to try to speak Macedonian again. </p>
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<p>Music is the universal language, but there's a lot more to it than just playing the good notes when you're trying to have a successful band. When I went to Prague with my psychedelic goth rock band in the early 2000s, with hopes of becoming the next Velvet Underground, our drummer quit right before we were set to leave. A major setback to be sure, but we agreed to find a drummer when we arrived. We hit a handful of open mics and jammed with a few Czech dudes, but nothing really panned out because of the language barriers we were met with. Miming will only get you so far... When I moved to Macedonia and discovered that even the alphabet I was accustomed to was worthless, I was totally overwhelmed. I enrolled in Cyrillic language classes, but could only communicate with my Macedonian colleagues at the level of a toddler at best (as illustrated in the aforementioned anecdote,) and for the 2 years I was there, I quit trying to play in a band altogether. I did work in the music department of an international school, but there was a void in my life, being that I wasn't performing at all myself. It takes a lot of courage to be vulnerable about your own limitations. If you're willing to push yourself, limitations can lead to glorious opportunity, but fearing those limitations can cause stagnation or worse. I know this because I've been on both sides of that coin. </p>
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<p>I'm no stranger to landing in a foreign country and doing my best to adjust. Embarking on a new adventure is exciting, sure, but it's bittersweet leaving behind everything you're familiar & comfortable with, even if the catalyst is a quest of the heart. I can definitely relate to Lenny Renegade's decision to say goodbye to his home of Mexico City to be with the love of his life. That's the best kind of gamble. In my case, the situations that brought me to distant lands never turned into the fairy tales I'd constructed in my mind, but they were times of delightful uncertainty- and the mishaps & triumphs sculpted me into the person I am. I don't regret any of the chances I took, or the one-way flights I booked, no matter how many times I looked like an ass to everyone who risked being in my company. I'm guessing Lenny doesn't either, even though being here has its challenges. I'm so thankful that he took a chance, and that the fates brought him to MN of all places. Not only is he a sick bassist and great teammate, but he and his lovely wife, Mary Mayhem have become a couple of my closest friends.</p>
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<p>Lenny has an infectiously playful demeanor, and some of our fondest phrases are "Lennyisms," which are basically better ways of saying things, that he invents because the English language is weird and doesn't make a lot of sense a lot of the time. So, despite some apprehension on his part about joining a band of English speakers, we're all embracing every bit of it. From the extra patience it takes us to work through problems effectively, to the hilarity of the shit that Lenny says, we're better because of our beloved Mexican. But it takes work, as he will tell you. Recently we were part of a documentary series by a local film company, so check out Lenny's episode, where he shares his own perspective on the topic: <a contents="Communication Breakdown" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-6L8NPXw1A&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR0p_menI3JesanrfLrwuLQG5T8bPyw73ovZqFzkc_8SlBfYPv22qqMW3yY" target="_blank">Communication Breakdown</a> As always, thanks for reading, Hotties. You're why this shit is 43 entries strong almost a year later. </p>
<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/60984932020-01-16T07:53:41-06:002020-01-16T20:05:42-06:00#42 Strength In Sobriety<p>When you picture the lifestyle of most rock musicians, images of wild concerts, exuberant groupies, and partying until reaching a loss of consciousness likely come to mind. Widely portrayed in almost every music-themed movie or musician documentary are tales of misguided over-consumption and lifelong battles with addiction. Stories of brilliant lives ravaged by substance abuse and binge drinking in an effort to cope with their demons or foster their creativity are detailed on nearly every musician's Wikipedia page once you get down to the "personal life" section. This is just reality. So when you hear about a musician who has chosen to live a sober life, it can kind of take you by surprise. </p>
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<p>Alcohol and music go hand in hand. Enjoying a few beers during rehearsal to get the creative juices flowing, taking a shot of whiskey to calm the nerves before a studio session or big gig... hell, I've even convinced myself that a brandy (neat) on the third set during a long show is medicinal. it just goes with the territory. "Musician" is one of the only jobs out there where drinking is not only acceptable, but encouraged and glamorized. Things are a bit different in Hot Pink Hangover though, because we have a sober band mate who has struggled with alcoholism, and whom we want to support so that we continue to be the united rock force that we're working hard every day to be. We're in this together.</p>
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<p>At one point in his life, Davey Hazard could really tie one on. We've heard some pretty colorful descriptions of his drunken antics as a student at The U of M and during his early band days. But three years ago, he made the very difficult and personal decision to put down the bottle. We recently had a film crew hit us up about doing a series of documentaries with the band and Davey talks more about his own journey during his segment. Check it out <a contents="here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/PDXlfIF03v8" target="_blank">here</a>. When I try to imagine my own life without the security blanket of booze, it's almost impossible to visualize. I depend on a glass of wine to lower my anxiety when forced to talk to people, to calm my nerves after a bad day, and to make me feel creative. I don't overdo it all the time, but I certainly don't have the willpower to quit. I tied-one-on hard New Years Eve and seriously considered quitting for good, both because of the way hangovers feel now that I'm no longer in my 20's, and because of the way I conducted myself... or embarrassed myself, rather. But I only made it 7 days before the temptation of a happy hour with a friend intervened. It's hard. Some of you know firsthand, and man, do I admire you for your strength and perseverance.</p>
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<p>I think we have a really good balance in Hot Pink Hangover. We write a lot of songs about these types of internal struggles, because we've actually been there, but we don't drink at our rehearsals- and we always put on sober performances for our audiences. Some of us will have a post-show beer, but you won't find us destroying hotel rooms after receiving cryptic messages from the bottom of a vodka bottle. Many of our fans are sober too and we're united by the support and encouragement we extend to one another. It's actually pretty admirable when you think about it. The concept of, "You just do you" and everyone will be cool with that- as long as you're not hurting anyone or insulting their values. We're lucky to have all of you in our lives. We're grateful that when we tell you we're just here to give you a rock show, and that we'll be doing it sober, none of you have ever given us any shit. Thanks, Hotties. This is one of the many reasons that we feel we have the best fans in the world. Cheers to strength in sobriety!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/2ec79a3a1b2c27244a11d6b9c97231d4e657facd/original/img-4464.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/60646602020-01-08T08:02:14-06:002020-01-10T05:58:22-06:00#41 Woodstock<p>There's this thing that used to happen that doesn't anymore, because the last time they tried to have it, everything turned to complete shit… literally. From simple concepts like love and peace, a music festival was born. And out of the ashes of the past came a generation of pyromaniacs, lushes, and bourgeoisie recreational drug addicts- of which I am a part of history, I guess, because I was in attendance at the controversial Woodstock '99. </p>
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<p>This was during a period of my life when I was game for just about anything. When asked whether or not I'd like to drive from Minnesota to New Orleans in February, sleep in parking garages and haunted hotels along the way, so we could visit Graceland and the French Quarter, the answer, of course, was "yes." If offered mystery shots, or blind dates, or magic brownies, I always replied, "you bet!" So when a group of my college classmates invited me on a little joyride up through Canada then down to Rome, NY so they could go to this renowned event, I was absolutely thrilled! The five of us piled into the minivan with our coolers, our tents, and my guitar, and we set out on the 1,200-mile journey while blasting all of our favorite bands that we were about to witness in person.</p>
<p>When we arrived, it was like entering Area 51. The concrete and asphalt air force base was boarded up like a fortress. The temps were in the mid-90s and you could see the steam rising up from the compound like a warning signal. We wormed our way into the long line and waited to be let inside. It was quickly disclosed that no booze was allowed through the gates. What this implied to the foolish teenagers and 20 somethings who had stocked their coolers for a long weekend of binge drinking, was that all the alcohol they'd packed would need to be consumed in the time it took for them to get up to security, so that not a drop would be victim to the giant trash receptacles at the front of the line. It was like witnessing feeding time in a shark tank. Guzzling sounds could be heard from both ends of the line, as everyone proceeded to get completely annihilated before the first act even hit the stage. It was poor footing to start the weekend on to be sure, but we followed suit and watched the contents of our beer bottles and boxed wine bladders slowly slide down our gullets. Then before we knew it, we were inside the gates.</p>
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<p>These were simpler times before the luxuries of high technology like cellphones and ticket entry codes, so the number of forged tickets was staggering. For basic folk like me, who had actually bought theirs, $200 for the weekend was a lot of night shifts spent working at the pizzeria. I aimed to get my money's worth. Had I known that the steep price would include dehydration, hunger, heat rash, and sexual harassment I might have just stayed home and watched "Will and Grace." It was not a glamorous experience in any way. The high temps caused long lines at the sparse water stations, and being that everyone was hammered and inhibitions were down, a few cavemen thought it would be hilarious to break off the water spigots and deprive an entire festival of fresh water (unless you paid $8 for the bottled variety the festival organizers were slinging). Food was exorbitantly priced, so I just didn't eat. There was another perk to choosing starvation though, which was not having to engage with the Biffys. If you have a weak stomach skip to the next paragraph. They hadn't been pumped all weekend and had literal shit pyramids emerging from their seats. People must have been standing on top of the seating ledge, just doing their best to aim for the peak and not drunkenly slip. All the fires and the riots pale in comparison to the Biffys. It was horrific. </p>
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<p>We did manage to escape the insanity for a brief respite in the Adirondack Mountains. While making our way along the winding roads, we found a glorious little cafe, whereupon we all gorged ourselves on steak, eggs, coffee, and sundaes. We also found a beautifully pristine lake and bathed ourselves for the first time in days. We all had welts covering our faces and bodies from too much sun exposure and the water felt incredibly healing. We begrudgingly made our way back to the car, unsure of the calamity we would be met with once back at the festival. The crowd had grown so much that we were forced to take a shuttle bus back to the air force base. As the bus stopped to pick us up, we were greeted by topless girls and shots of Everclear (apparently they had become less stringent about their prohibition rules as the weekend progressed). When we got back to the grounds, we were disappointed to discover we'd missed Kid Rock, but Korn was about to start, so we made our way to the main stage, trying to avoid being pelted by flying bottles or step in human excrement. </p>
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<p>So, yeah, I was there and it was a pretty mixed bag of terrible and incredible. I guess that's life in general. Someday I'll tell my nieces and nephews about it and they'll think it I'm awesome. </p>
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<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/60518302020-01-02T12:12:53-06:002023-10-16T09:53:31-05:00#40 I Resolve to Party More<p>I was going to take the easy way out this week and just post my "most-read blog of 2019" which, in case you were wondering was <a contents='"Vanna White gets a Black Eye"' data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bandzoogle.com/controlpanel/blogs/the-danger-diaries/posts/24-the-vanna-white-chronicles/edit?blog_feature_id=276489">"Vanna White gets a Black Eye"</a> but I decided to start the year off by challenging myself and writing something new for you. ;-)</p>
<p>I love to entertain... and I don't only mean on-stage. I also mean in our home. I can come up with just about any reason to get people together to laugh, listen to music, eat, and drink. I've been the hostess (and drunken vinyl DJ) to many a late-night fondue party, where cheese-spattered tablecloths and paper bags overflowing with empty bottles of cheap wine greet me and my hangover the morning after. These high-calorie, high ABV evenings were what I lived for! Danny Rampage and I have been known to throw any number of extravaganzas ranging from 007-themed black tie affairs and speakeasy nights to fall-inspired food fests. We love to dress up (as you might have gathered if you've ever been to a <a contents="Hot Pink Hangover concert" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/shows">Hot Pink Hangover concert</a>) and parties are a great excuse to do that! I'm thinking that in 2020 there should be more of this sort of thing...</p>
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<p>Evidently after the release of John Water's 1972 film, "Pink Flamingo," folks started placing plastic models of the birds out in their flower beds to indicate that they were intending to host a happy hour later in the evening and there was a high probability of mixed drinks inside. Just a friendly little neighborhood advertisement that fun could be had if you only knocked! I love this. If I'd known this several weeks ago, I would have asked for a plastic set of flamingos for Christmas. *I've read that pink flamingos in a yard can also designate swinger households, so if you're planning on knocking on that door, just know what you might be getting yourself into.</p>
<p>I also love parties. When my old bandmates and I landed in Prague in the early 2000s, one of the first invitations we received was to attend a birthday party at a late-night Czech drag show. We were jet-lagged but we accepted. Long tables lined the dimly lit space below the stage, and the venue smelled of old sweat and stale Pilsner-Urquell. They didn't sell individual drinks. No, you had to buy booze by the bottle. Soon the drag show started, and queens of all walks of life hit the stage in their outlandish costumes, and enthusiastically crooned songs of their choosing. My friends and I made merriment for several hours while being entertained by the show and feeling invincible after shaking hands with Absinthe. When it came time to pay the bill, somehow we had drunkenly misplaced ours. Now, in The States, this probably wouldn't have been a big deal, but it was evidently an incredible inconvenience for management at this particular establishment. "Why the hell can't they just print us out a new tab?!" I drunkenly shrieked to the burley, Czech-speaking manager... He was scowling at me, shaking his fist, and hollering something menacing in an unrecognizable tongue. Luckily, just when things were nearing possible banishment, I lifted a vodka bottle for one more sip for the road, and there, stuck to the bottom of the bottle was our tab. Those of us not yet passed out feebly paid the bill and left in search of deep-fried cheese.</p>
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<p>I've toned things down slightly since the story mentioned above, but my goal for 2020 is to have more fun. I know that entertaining folks is a true source of enjoyment for me, so I think I'll organize a masquerade ball or maybe plan a onsie-themed high tea. I'm furiously crafting inventive party ideas and festive new recipes as I write this, and am going to get onto Amazon right now to buy those flamingos. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/60386752019-12-26T11:44:51-06:002019-12-29T12:01:10-06:00#39 The Sweater<p>I have a sweater that I bought years ago. I got it new, which is a rare thing for me, being the second-hand junkie that I am. I had gone into the store to buy milk, but then I saw this irresistible example of vestment perfection on the rack and it spoke to me. It beckoned me over to try it on. I liked how this particular sweater made me look and feel when I was wearing it. I felt confident and saw myself in a different light when wrapped in its comfortable fabric. I loved myself in it. At first, I didn't think I deserved such a nice garment, but I just couldn't walk away from it. I didn't care how much it cost. I got out my wallet and I made the transaction with a smiling clerk, who only further affirmed my good taste.</p>
<p>But over time something happened, and the sweater I once adored became old news. I got used to it. The feelings I had when I first donned it were no longer there, because I'd replaced it with newer, more exciting versions and had pushed the old sweater to the back of my closet. My tastes had changed and that old sweater was not what I wanted... What I've just described is disenchantment. It doesn't only happen with clothes, people. It happens with jobs, with hobbies, with lovers, and with countless other things. It happens to me with great frequency, which I see as further evidence that I need a good psychotherapist and a silent meditation retreat where I can both rest my voice and clear my head.</p>
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<p>When things are new they're so exhilarating. The honeymoon phase. I can remember 3 years ago when Davey Hazard and I first started Hot Pink Hangover. I was completely obsessed. I dreamed about songs we would write, tours we would take, and daily show hosts we would stun with our talent. I was all-consumed by my desire to get our band to the next level- genuinely believing we had what it takes to succeed in this fantastic but fickle industry. But it didn't happen. Venue owners ignored my pleas for gigs, festival coordinators picked other acts over ours, and even local radio stations wouldn't recognize us. So I got sad. One of my classic moves when I feel this kind of malcontent is to redecorate my apartment. Some of you may have seen it. I went from hoarder grandma to boho minimalist in one afternoon. This is one way I cope. Another way is to stress eat mass quantities of tortilla chips and artificial cheese dip. Jesus, the skeletons are coming out of the closet tonight. </p>
<p>We tend to get comfortable, then complacent, and then we start taking things for granted and stop caring about anything at all. At which point, we either go into a state of depression, or have a mid-life crisis. I'm still trying to determine which is my current status. There's an ebb and flow in life. We all need to hold on tight, while doing our best to maneuver through the eddies and falls that may arise in order to come out in one piece unscathed. Support systems are necessary. Making mistakes is necessary. Change is necessary. It doesn't get easier the older we get. I'm learning to appreciate what I have when I have it because one day there could be loss, or misfortune, or worse.</p>
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<p>My 10 year old nice was admitted to Children's Hospital almost a week ago. We were all at the hospital for Christmas, which is obviously one of the last places anyone wants to be- especially for a child and on the holidays. Yet I witnessed my brother and his wife spreading joy to their daughters, despite the awful circumstances and I was incredibly inspired... Rather than complain about everything and have a pity party (which is what I undoubtedly would have done) my brother spoke of the delicious meal they had on Christmas Day. His wife glowed as she showed us the crafts they'd been working on to help pass the time. They were kind and enthusiastic to every nurse who came in to tend to my niece. They set an amazing example- one which was probably intended for their kids, but which was also not lost on me. It was a reality check for how much I have taken for granted in my life. I'm going to head back to the hospital to see them now and I'm wearing my old sweater. I have a new appreciation for it. It may be a bit tattered now, but I'm remembering why I bought the sweater in the first place. Because it fit me perfectly, it was warm and comfortable, and I loved it. Happy Holidays, Hotties. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/60050922019-12-15T09:16:31-06:002019-12-23T06:49:44-06:00#38 Darkness<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/860198c4469b12342cc110d1287beee09ec5116a/original/191c11b0-ec97-45a1-95d4-4a617cdc58dc.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I've always had a propinquity to the dark side. I can remember at age 9, going to volunteer with my grandma at a little gift shop outside a railroad depot in Calumet, MN. I was in charge of running the concession stand. I had just begun to understand the concept of death and was grappling with the bleak notion that eventually, everybody just went away. Forever. Not having been raised a Christian, I had no security blanket about a glorious world beyond this one- whereupon I would reconnect with all my loved ones and bask in eternal lightness. Rather, what I understood was that once the fates decided it was time for me to be done living, there would simply be nothingness. It was a terrifying concept for a young kid and I became slightly consumed by negative thoughts and went into a depression. My parents tried to figure out why I had stomach aches all the time and what was at the root of my sadness. It was simple. I was sick because I didn't want anyone I loved to go away forever. </p>
<p>It was Christmas. Under the tree, with my name, were two gifts. A David Bowie record album and a small, acoustic guitar. We had recently watched "Labyrinth" and I had instantly fallen in love with David Bowie- but I hated the 3/4-sized wooden instrument, so proudly bestowed upon me by my parents. It hurt my fingers- and being that it was the 1980's, I saw that guitar as a boy’s instrument and wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted a piano. David Bowie however, played a big part in sculpting my world. Music has a way of doing that. I idolized him and he helped me get happy. My parents indulged my obsession by getting me all of his cassette tapes, alerting me to the various films he was in so I could watch and memorize them, and even letting me express myself through Bowie-inspired fashion choices that would have been considered a bit flamboyant to most. Eventually, I stopped being consumed by thoughts of death and began to be consumed by ideas for songs. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/d5373e2c56a9507766449efe1ac0dd5ff509c85d/original/4c2573ee-baff-4797-929b-3b85cd0ecaa2.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" />My parents eventually gave in and bought me a keyboard when I was 12 or 13 and that's when I started to get more serious about songwriting. Up until that point I had been awkwardly co-mingling spoken word and interpretive dance in a kind of pre-Lady Gaga, unbridled, pubescent free-flow format. I think the keyboard was purchased solely so I would stop doing the thing I just described. I didn't really have a natural aptitude for playing the keys. I had nobody to show me how to do it correctly and thus, my form was archaic and my technique was clumsy at best. But I started to write songs. I still have some of the cassette tapes from those days. If only I had a tape player with which to listen to them... or maybe they are best laid to rest in obsolescence. This went on for a number of years and turned into a short career with a classmate which you can read about in <a contents="Blog #13" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.hotpinkhangover.com/blog?p=26" target="_blank">Blog #13</a>. </p>
<p>I didn't really tap into my true musical capabilities until I decided to pick up a guitar. Initially, I did have flashbacks of my 9-year old self, sitting by the Christmas tree and struggling to grab a "B" chord, cringing and crying all the while. But this time I decided to push through it, learn a few chords, and develop some calluses. And I sure am glad I did. I found that rather effortlessly, I could write, play, sing, perform... no- I could ENTERTAIN!!! Once I was able to conveniently accompany myself, the world opened up. I was the live music at every party, I was the brash girl with the pipes. For the first time in my life, people actually seemed to give a shit about what I had to say. Through the years, my voice has been my greatest asset and my most dangerous weapon. It has led me to unimaginable delights and immense disappointment. It has caused some to swoon over me and others to despise me. A gift and a burden. I have always preferred to write songs that will bring people to tears because for me, the most depressing songs make me feel better. The most intensely tragic lyrics bring me comfort. I'm no longer the little girl at the concession stand obsessing about death, but darkness still hides in the shadowy recesses of my brain and peeks at me. Maybe it will always will be there. When it comes, I write...</p>
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<p>When I was 9, I ran away from home. I can't imagine what my parents could have possibly said or done that would have upset me to the extent that I felt the need to abscond, but for whatever reason, I retaliated in true dramatic fashion. I loaded my brothers (one was an infant at the time) into a little red wagon and wheeled them down the road until I found a small, but inviting glen in the woods. We tucked ourselves away and I quickly proceeded to build a stick shelter and a fire for us, as it had started to drizzle. Next, I wheeled my good-sported siblings down to the river, and gently stowed them under a bridge while I tried to determine if I was skillful enough to catch a fish with my bare hands. After several futile attempts I gave up and wheeled my poor captives back to our makeshift homestead. </p>
<p>I was staying busy serenading the little fellows and foraging for something to eat- because by that point, the infant child was starting to protest. Meanwhile, my parents were stricken with concern and were out searching for us. They looked under the bridge, but were too late. They walked the nearby roads, but we were nestled too far into the woods for them to see us. I was taking great joy in assuming that my parents were feeling dread, panic, and concern for our well being. After several hours had passed, I decided they had been adequately punished and I pulled the little family wagon back home. My parents were not impressed and I was swiftly grounded for the first and only time in my life. And my brothers haven't trusted me since. </p>
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<p>Running away has been sort of a theme in my life... Perhaps it was my transient upbringing. Maybe it's the constant quest for something better. Whatever the reason, I'm sure there are deep-rooted issues with long psychological descriptions associated with this behavior pattern. It's slightly embarrassing to admit that I've attended 7 colleges, that I've had more jobs (and boyfriends) than I can even recount, and that I need photo albums to know just what in the hell I've done with my life. I purchased a home once, but upon doing so, immediately realized the permanency of that decision and fled, abandoning the house, and all that went along with it. </p>
<p>I guess I also run away through my songs. Writing is an escape mechanism as much as it is an art form for me. When I'm living in the fantasy world of a song, I can bask in it and not have to face the of the state of the world, or the fact that I don't want to go to grocery shopping, or any other scenario that might merit eluding reality. I've never been much of a drug enthusiast, so that form of extrication has not been my chosen one, but the imagination can be quite the entertaining little locale when you let your inhibitions down. That said, some things need to be met head-on with thought and reasoning, and we owe it to the people in our lives to give them that. Life's complications can't always just be jumped over in lieu of a song about rainbows and unicorns. But sometimes (especially for artists) part of the mental and emotional processing required to deal with real life shit can be positively aided by a good creative writing session. It's a way to work out the bugs if you will. Life can get heavy and we can't always take the easy way out and just run away. I'm slowly learning that. Besides, some things are worth sticking around and fighting for. One thing's for sure... the next time I need to escape through song, I'm going to write a little apology interlude for my brothers about the time I took them against their will and ran away to the woods. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/55225ad6ec9b909c0b07525f4693b9e439b8bd25/original/scan-42.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/59618792019-11-28T11:09:07-06:002019-12-02T19:20:30-06:00#36 Granny G-Funk<p>Today I'm going to tell you about my favorite person to ever live. </p>
<p>I'm tearing up a bit as I write this, just thinking about what a truly righteous and inspiring woman my maternal grandma was for so many. Words really can't do justice to convey how hilarious, selfless, and industrious this free-thinking, comical, yet compassionate woman was. But I'm going to do my best here.</p>
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<p>The daughter of a railroad worker, she grew up during The Great Depression with 4 siblings surrounding her on both sides by age. Her family was always on the move from one town to the next, as her dad commanded the railways by day and studied law by night. He was evidently a brilliant but temperamental man who, sadly, developed Multiple Sclerosis and became bed-bound at the age of 40, whereupon his wife had to pick up the slack and be the mom and the dad for the family of 5 kids. My grandma learned at an early age to get by with very little, to appreciate the good things in life, and to work hard. These are values she imparted on those she knew and we are all better for it. She would do things the right way- even if there were shortcuts available, which seems to be a method no longer exercised by most. </p>
<p>She moved to Duluth as a young woman, but had bigger plans of running away to California (I assume for a man- knowing what I know about her affinity for strapping lads.) Ticket in hand and westward-bound with stars in her eyes, she was at the railway station, when her older sister intervened and pulled her off the train, so on the frigid shores of Lake Superior is where she stayed, always wondering what direction her life would have taken, had she gone. She accepted her lot and got a job at the bank, where she befriended a young, female co-worker and the two would commiserate on the clock about leaving someday. At one point, my grandma saw this woman writing a letter and inquired who it was for. She replied by saying it was to her brother, who was off fighting in WWII. My grandma asked her to tell him hi. To think that one word would start a long distance romance of enormous proportions was not top of mind for my grandma when she made that simple request, but that is exactly what happened. </p>
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<p>The soldier wrote back and the two corresponded with fervid love letters back and forth over the next 9 months or so. When he finally returned, having frozen his feet while manning a machine gun on the front-lines, they met face to face and it was all over. Theirs was a love story that anyone would aspire to achieve. They maintained an unfaltering devotion to one another for 75 years. They were the team of 2 who built their house, raised their kids, garnered respect from the community, and were the cornerstone of our family. She was by his side when he passed away and his final words to her were the three that everyone wants to hear, "I love you." </p>
<p>Once I came along (her first granddaughter) my grandma and I would spend countless hours together. To put it simply, she "got" me. Whether I was being teased at school for my homemade clothes, entering into a doomed relationship as a young woman, or any other wide array of scenarios which required sage wisdom, she's who I would go to first. The hours we spent cackling on the phone, the miles we covered behind the dash of a car with my mom on one of our many 3-generation trips, and the laughs shared while saddled up next to each other watching "Golden Girls" are all memories I will cherish until I'm gone. She had a way of brightening every situation no matter how dire.</p>
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<p>I lived with her and my grandpa after I graduated high school, which was amazing to have a pair of the best role models I could imagine, helping me navigate the torrential waters of a 2-year community college career. We would eat dinner together every night while listening to gramps tell stories from the war or granny recounting tales from her colorful childhood. Grandma was an artist and we would spend afternoons painting landscapes in her basement as Bob Ross gently orated in the background. These were some of my favorite bonding moments with her. She could make anyone laugh with her dirty sense of humor and her quick wit. I can still picture she and my mom traipsing down the hallway of my apartment building one of the times they'd come for a visit. Grandma was actually kicking her whiskey bottle (a widow-maker of McMasters) down the hallway and as it rolled towards me she cackled, "I sure as hell don't want to leave home without this!" Indeed.</p>
<p>Grandma always had a compliment to give, a kind sentiment to impart, and a smile to bestow. Everyone who met her loved her. There is a void that she once filled that is now empty for many. So, this Thanksgiving, as you're sitting down to eat a meal, or play a card game, or watch a movie- with whoever you usually spend your holidays in the company of, show your appreciation. Tell them a story or a dirty joke. Express something you like about them... or just tell them you love them. I'd give anything in the world to hear my grandma say those words to me one more time. </p>
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<p>I have an affinity for cooking that quite possibly exceeds my love of music. But it wasn't always that way. When asked to take a Home Economics class in high school, I sneered and signed up for Wood Shop instead. While the other girls were showing off their crookedly constructed pillow cases and bragging about their marinara sauces, I was learning to use a band saw and being instructed on how to properly wear a welding mask. My poor mom would try with all her might to persuade me to put on an apron and join her in the merriment of dinner preparation but her pleas would always be met with disdain. Instead, I'd retire to my bedroom to write love songs about boys I'd never kissed and hearts I'd only hope to steal. I was a grunge kid, flannel shirts, ripped boys jeans and black make-up. I wanted to make music, not stew. Forcing me into a kitchen was only adding fuel to the flames of the patriarchal dilemma and I wanted no part of it.</p>
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<p>All that changed when my French class took a field trip to the fanciest restaurant in town and I was surrounded by extravagance unlike I'd ever experienced. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, ceramic fireplaces roared and filled the plush dining room with warmth and ambiance. A delectable multi-coursed meal was served with pride by dapper gents wearing cummerbunds and bow ties. That was the day I vowed to learn to appreciate the finer things in life. I also vowed that my next job would be in that very dining room. I wanted to elegantly serve food and Champagne to the well-to-do folk of the upper mid-west. Generally speaking, when I have a goal in my head, I do everything in my power to secure what I want. In this instance, I started with a job application. When that was ignored, I presented myself on their doorstep and introduced myself, gushing over the meal I'd experienced with my French class, stating that I would be a steward of their tutelage and an asset to their business. They agreed to give me a job as a housekeeper. It wasn't as glamorous a beginning as I'd envisioned, but I was in the door. I've always been a bit of a neat freak, so this was actually a good job for me. I could really show off my talents for dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing even the most stubborn of toilets, but deep down I knew I was destined for more. After a few months of being a merry maid, never calling in sick, or missing a rogue bathroom hair, evidently they saw greatness in me and I was asked if I'd like to try something different.</p>
<p>I remember how important and dignified I felt the first day I put on my floor-length black skirt with a slit up the side (just high enough to possibly improve my tips by 5% or so) and stepped out into my dining room. Yes, it was <em>my</em> dining room- because when I was on the clock I owned that shit. It was absolute bliss working in that environment, but I also gained a new appreciation for what went on behind the scenes. I often found myself gravitating into the kitchen to sneak a peek at what the ill-tempered but charming chefs had up their sleeves for the next course. Soon, I was helping to fillet fish, make roux, whip cream, and do any other task that was asked of me. I had a lot of questions and eventually the chefs saw that I wasn't trying to be annoying but that I actually possessed a genuine interest in their skill-set. I happily worked that job every summer for 12 years. During the off-season, I would gallivant around Eastern Europe, but come summer, it was show time! I can honestly say that I learned more during my stint as a waitress than any of my failed college attempts had ever taught me. </p>
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<p>I've been considering doing a sort of food video blog where Mercy Danger, clad in a hot pink apron with an acoustic guitar slung over her back, comes on screen and cooks, sings, and tells dirty jokes- but the idea is in its infancy. I could take you all foraging with me and then whip up a little mushroom amuse bouche, while crooning away on my latest musical composition. I wonder if I'd get more than 2 viewers (you know who you are) or if it would lead to wild success? The bottom line is that sometimes there can be two things in your life that you are passionate about and that shouldn't stop you from putting your best foot forward with each of them. I think about what I would have missed out on if I had obsessed over only music... or only cooking. Life is about balance. Now, I'm off to go make stew.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/59580342019-11-14T08:21:17-06:002019-11-27T19:08:10-06:00#34 Wanderlust<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/fd1e3b044a6747bbaaad6ec9d6fa5b6d7d1b8056/original/img-4131.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When I was a kid, my family went through phases where we would live as transients. We were never officially homeless, but sometimes it really did seem like we were uprooting everything without anywhere to go. At one point we lived in an old school bus that my dad had converted into a house on wheels. We kept our meager belongings in cardboard boxes underneath the bunk beds in the back of the bus. My dad had outfitted the vessel with a gas stove and fridge so my mom was able to keep the home fires burning as we roamed the two-lane highways, ever in search of the next best destination. Another time, we lived in a gigantic tent- just slightly shy of something the Ringling Brothers might roll into town with. Up went the awnings and out went any inkling of a dull life. While other kids were gathered around a dinner table, begrudgingly discussing their mundane daily doings, we were seated around a weathered picnic table, laughing, as my dad beat on a guitar and my mom filled our plates with home cooked delights that she'd made in her traveling kitchen. </p>
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<p>I was never at the same school long enough to make any lasting friends- but I did gain some pen pals with whom I would exchange correspondence long after we had moved on to the next town. Summers were often spent in campgrounds, biding time before the purchase of a new house or the start of a new job, or perhaps other reasons that I may never know. Either way, my parents did an amazing job of showing my two younger brothers and I how to entertain ourselves with unconventional pastimes while we were waiting for the next chapter to start. Once, my dad made us a blow gun out of PVC pipe. He placed targets all over the campground and my brothers & I would approach hyperventilation attempting to hit the bulls-eyes with handmade nail darts. He showed us how to make a massive slingshot out of an inner-tube, which he affixed to the trunks of a couple of large trees and we would pull back rocks, stuffed animals, and sometimes each other and fling them with vigor out into the rivers & lakes of the upper mid-west. My mom provided us with copious amounts of books, art supplies, and other DIY paraphernalia, so her little gas fridge always had a constant influx of our creations haphazardly taped to it's door. </p>
<p>As a young adult, I romped from college to college, gobbling up syllabi in nearly every subject possible and never settling on anything for a major. I was far more concerned with taking the many campus' by storm through my songwriting and the gusto with which I could consume punishing quantities of bottom shelf vodka, than focusing my energy on a degree. I traveled the world and ate incredible street food, I got into bad relationships and feverishly wrote songs about the mistakes that felt so right at the time. I had some of the best moments of my life with some of the most hilarious and talented people I've ever known. Late nights spent bar-hopping on a tandem bicycle, singing at the top of my lungs, high on life... and maybe other things. I was always on the move and I always wanted more. </p>
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<p>The point of all these sentimental tales of yore is to illustrate that I am a free spirit and I have now been in Saint Paul for ten years. A decade. When I arrived to the Twin Cities, I was a head-strong, small town girl about to move in with a record producer who had worked with Prince and Jessica Simpson. I figured it would be merely a pit stop before moving on to Nashville or L.A. But one disaster led to another and I ultimately landed outside a pizza joint where an "apartment for rent" sign handwritten on a pizza box beckoned. I was lost, defeated, and desperate- so I bit. And there I have stayed for last 3,650 earthly pirouettes. I don't like being in one place for that long. Granted, I have a job that I like. I have a band that I love. I have friends, family, and contacts here. Yet there's an itch that is deep. A nagging discomfort which can't be relieved even with expensive whiskey or dirty jokes. Yes, wanderlust has hit me in the gut and left me gasping for a breath of fresh air. If only I could just pick up everyone and everything that I love about this city and bring us all to a new paradise. I realize that sounds a bit culty, but it’s what I want. Bottom line: I hate winter with a darkness even Tolkien didn't have words for. Now that it is creeping in again, I'm back to the mindset that staying in one place is an abandonment of better things to come, especially here. I'm preparing for another dismal 6 months, attempting to appreciate the 7 hours of daylight, while waiting to be plowed out. But the truth is, at this point I don't even know where I'd go. So for now, I'm off to buy some Vitamin D, a sun lamp, ice cleats, a widow-maker of Brandy, and a new calendar so I can make sure I have plenty of appointments with my therapist on the books. Maybe I'll run into some of you in the vitamin aisle & we can commiserate. I know I can't be alone here. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/dde4cb0634dceb91d4b8cd3ddd62fff3adc51711/original/city.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/59365262019-11-03T16:11:49-06:002019-11-08T18:47:25-06:00#33 Off The Grid<p>You know those people who say, "We're going to the cabin this weekend so we can rough it a bit!" ...but what they really mean is that they're going to have a little romp at their mansion on the water, merely so they can mix up their Instagram posts and justify paying their lofty taxes? At one point I dated a guy who took me to his "family cabin." When he pulled the car up to an elegant and stately property -its manicured lawn nestled right next to the shores of Lake Superior, I thought sure he was playing a trick on me. We spent the weekend there, and I quickly discovered I'd happily be the kept woman of a rich baron if it meant living like a princess. Breakfasts were spent on the patio, where spray kissed our noses, and French-pressed coffee washed down the whitefish caviar & croissants which had been set out by the maids. I ended up driving this particular man to the Seminary, so unfortunately my little fairy tale of a life spent in luxury was more short-lived than I would have preferred.</p>
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<p>A couple weeks ago I took Danny Rampage up to <em>my</em> family cabin, where he got to experience almost a week without running water and little-to-no cell service. My grandparents built the cabin in the 1960's, and it still has a few remnants of classic mod flair that I adore. Sadly, they did away with the orange shag carpeting, (which is a travesty as far as I'm concerned) but the original charm and energy of their hard work and presence remains. Their ashes sit on the mantel and their things are scattered throughout the property, helping to keep their memory alive. The cabin is a rustic but sturdy structure on a weed-riddled lake, down a dirt road about 4 hours north. Most people wouldn't give it a second look when planning to build their dynasty, but it has a special place in the hearts of those who have come to appreciate its primitively charming quirks. About a year ago we almost lost our treasured lakeside retreat over a dispute after my grandma passed away. I've learned that people can get absolutely sick with greed when somebody dies. The day my mom and brother drove their truck up there with the intention of cleaning the place out and saying their goodbyes to a lifetime of memories before putting the property up for sale, they were both struck with the same overwhelming feeling that they were making a big mistake. I don't believe in God, but I do believe in cosmic energy and whatever my mom and brother felt that day, I think was my grandparents getting feisty wherever they are. They wanted the cabin to stay in the family and that's just what my mom and brother vowed would happen... at all costs. The cost was rather great, both monetarily and emotionally, but the plan is that eventually the third generation will take over ownership, and then the fourth generation, and so on. </p>
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<p>So while Danny and I were up north, visiting my mom at our humble Shangri-la, (since we couldn't update our socials or scan Facebook for trolls or even read text messages) we decided to get creative! When you're used to living with modern conveniences like running water, it tends to be taken for granted. You see, there has never been a way to bathe at the cabin (when you can't just get into the lake) so we made it a priority to construct a shower. Now, luckily my mom was there, as she is one of the more industrious & innately handy people I know, so she was able to take the lead and we were there to add our little nuggets of advice when we had them. Together, with an old tin tub, a hoola-hoop, a rubber bladder, some screws, and a shower curtain, we made magic happen! We heated kettles of hand-pumped well water on the stove and waited patiently, sipping on brandy in front of a roaring fire and then I took the first indoor shower that cozy little dwelling had ever known. It was fabulous!</p>
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<p>Stepping off the grid for the week was just what we needed to get ourselves ready for another weekend on the road. Once all the work was done, we did some lyric writing, some planning, and a lot of relaxing. Grandma and grandpa would have been so happy to see us enjoying the fruits of their labor and to know that we're doing our best to honor them. It's no sea-side castle, but it's perfect to us. </p>
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<p>Many of you have asked if the members of Hot Pink Hangover have day jobs, or if music is our full-time gig. This band is a full-time job to be sure, but sadly, it isn't paying enough yet to support us (unless we all significantly reduce our standards of living) so for now, we'll need to keep grinding out the hours at our non-music jobs... </p>
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<p>I met Davey Hazard 3 years ago at work. We'd pass one another in the hallways of our building, barely making eye contact. I'd throw him a hostile sideways glance and he'd saunter past, head down, the sleeves of his sweatshirt clutched in his hands, as he wandered off to put out whatever fire he was being summoned for. Eventually he found out I play guitar, and mustered up the courage to ask me if I wanted to jam sometime... If you'd care to find out how that went, you can read about it <a contents="here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.hotpinkhangover.com/blog?p=27" target="_blank">here</a>. Davey and I are employed at a public elementary school in one of the more affluent suburbs. He works in our school's Special Education Department and I work in the Health Office, posing as a school nurse. Some of the kids even call me "doctor" which I think has a nice ring to it... Doctor Danger. Anyway, Davey is really good with the kids. When you see him at our shows, bounding across the stage, sweat dripping off his furrowed brow, and slamming power chords into the ether, it might seem surprising that his days are spent calmly de-escalating and educating some of our more challenged youth. He comes into my office occasionally- pretending to have a tummy ache, and we briefly talk shop and I sometimes recommend he try a chamomile enema for his belly. It's nice being able to check in with him during the day and to see him walking the halls... because now he knows that my hostile glance is just part of the package and he doesn't take it too personally.</p>
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<p>Danny Rampage was a corporate whore when I met him. He worked in package design, making visually striking retail garbage for consumers to gaze upon in stores and then toss away once their cereal boxes or deodorant tubes had been depleted. Don't get me wrong- I love money, and Danny was making a fair amount of it... But it seemed unfair to witness such an intelligent, personable, and talented guy be bound to these dreadful of 5-9 constraints. He was miserable most days, knowing he was contributing first-hand to the growth of the plastic island. Danny wanted to spend more of his time working on the band. When he made the choice to go down to part-time for a small, local start-up, as a social media marketer for one of his old band-mates, I was cringing, but supportive. I imagined our vacations would be reduced to modest days at Como Zoo, gazing at lethargic animals and feeding the pigeons. Positano would be but a flicker in my lazy eye... I'm the first to admit when I've been wrong- and I was. Danny tends to quickly become an asset wherever he inserts himself, and he has a way of making his career flourish just by being his tenacious and competent self. He's learning some great tricks of the trade at his day job, (which he is able to transfer over to Hot Pink Hangover) and we are seeing the results of his efforts with regards to our growing metrics. </p>
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<p>Our dear Lenny Renegade probably has it the worst of all of us. Not only does he need to rise at the crack of dawn, many times after a late night gigging, but he has to deal with some pretty rude clientele- and do so with a smile. Lenny is a cook and cashier at a yuppie cafeteria. One would think that the early risers of Minneapolis (donning their suits & ties, driving their luxury automobiles to a job where they make six figures) would be ready to greet their service staff with kindness and gratitude. Nope. We hear horror stories from an animated Lenny of ill-tempered business men throwing tantrums if the Swiss cheese on their breakfast sandwich is slightly askew. Nonetheless, Lenny very rarely falters from his polite and benevolent demeanor even in the most harsh of customer service catastrophes. It sounds like between the dodgy higher-ups and the entitled patrons, we cannot start making our millions soon enough so we can get our Renegade out of the kitchen and onto the stage full-time. </p>
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<p>I'm one of those musicians who has never taken the scary first step of quitting her day job. I was mortified by the idea of how that could go if I didn't make the right connections or perform the right sexual favors. When I was a young waitress, I was pulling in so much money, I didn't even know where to spend it, since my rent cost a pittance and I shopped for nearly everything second-hand. My gigs were small potatoes in comparison, and I liked the security blanket my job provided. Living paycheck to paycheck and having to busk for my next meal (so far) has not been in the cards for me- and that's okay. I'm no Jewel, squatting in a dilapidated old van with my mom, and singing for my supper. I'm a poser nurse with a pink wig, playing in a rock band, but I've still got ambitions that include fame and fortune. It will be a sad day when I throw in the towel and stop trying to be a rock star. We all need something to live for after all. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/59259362019-10-14T20:27:43-05:002022-09-18T11:59:26-05:00#31 One Reason I Hate Tambourines<p>Hot Pink Hangover is working on a <a contents="full-length album" data-link-label="Crowdfunding" data-link-type="page" href="/crowdfunding">full-length album</a>! It seems like just yesterday we were playing the Nomad World Pub (RIP) as we celebrated our firstborn, "<a contents="Wasted" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_kbhucoy1I2sOHB0CCgXHi-izclT0Mgmyg" target="_blank">Wasted</a>." I remember the panic I felt because it had been years since I'd been on stage with a band and I was convinced I was going to do something to make us all look bad. I couldn't hack team sports growing up because If I missed a shot or had an uncoordinated moment, I assumed I had let everyone down and they would most certainly hate me and say slanderous things behind my back. For this same reason, I wanted so badly not to disappoint my bandmates by making a complete ass of myself on our big night. I thought for sure I would trip on a cable and fall off the stage, or that the crotch of my leggings would split open for everyone to see... but as soon as we were up there and had struck our first note, I witnessed the expanse of smiling faces & dancing bodies, and my fears disappeared like a good dirty martini tends to when left in my care.</p>
<p>We released 3 sarcastic and comical EPs in the "Wasted" trilogy, and we did our best to get people's attention. With our <a contents="tour dates" data-link-label="Shows" data-link-type="page" href="/shows">tour dates</a> to support "Wasted in 3D" coming to a close, we're dedicating the winter months to recording some of the songs you may have heard live but can't find on any CDs currently. Our back catalog of material is rather vast, so it's time to select some of those hidden gems and get to work! A few of our focus points will be, getting kick-ass live drum sounds (which can take a bit of work and experimentation.) We've been entertaining some non-conventional ways to accomplish this and if you want to hear the juicy details make sure you sign our <a contents="email list" data-link-label="Contact" data-link-type="page" href="/contact" target="_blank">email list</a> to stay connected. Sometimes we only share that stuff with our subscribers! If I get my way, we'll be including some vocal harmonies from the guys. They sing their little hearts out at the live shows, but when it comes to vocal sessions in the studio, they've been reluctant to share their talents. I've resolved to bolster their self-esteem until they agree to sing on the album. Finally, you can expect a couple of BALLADS! Davey Hazard has agreed to restrain himself from his percussive chugs and his lively power chords, while I warble away on a few slow, heart-wrenching, non-punk rock songs. I simply cannot wait!</p>
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<p>When I lived in Macedonia I would occasionally take the train to Greece, and without fail, every time I made that trip, a band of Roma would hop on the train, bang their tattered tambourines, and bully the bewildered passengers into giving them a hand-out. Being a poor wanderer myself at that point in my life, it left a rather bitter taste in my mouth for the antics of musical beggars. So when the guys and I were entertaining the idea of crowdfunding our full-length album, I was instantly back on that train, surrounded by belligerent percussionists. I was not in favor of asking for help. I've always considered crowdfunding to be basically glorified begging, just wrapped in a pretty digital package... But after lots of processing and getting feedback from you, our beloved fans, who continue to insist that you want to support us despite our doubts- we've decided that we could really use your help. I'm not saying we <em>couldn't</em> do it without you... it would just take a lot longer and we want to get this next big batch of songs out, so you can hear what we've been busy working on. </p>
<p>So, for those of you who choose to help, know that you're paying it forward for the ones who can't. We realize that not every one of our fans can spend their hard-earned money on us- but for those of you who are in a place where you're able, we are so grateful and we promise to do our best to make you proud of your investment in our music. If you want to see what we're offering on the various support tiers, check it out <a contents="right here" data-link-label="Crowdfunding" data-link-type="page" href="/crowdfunding" target="_blank">right here</a>. Thank you so much for every social media "like", every YouTube subscription, every time you came out to a show, every tee shirt you bought, and every compliment you've shared after a performance. We feel very loved and it's because of each and every one of you. </p>
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<p> </p>
<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/59130252019-10-04T14:32:12-05:002022-05-04T15:57:22-05:00#30 Video Killed The Radio Star<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/4eff72eab14d7d708722f37ac8ae64c16c10b45d/original/img-3939.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When we started Hot Pink Hangover back in 2017, you could fit our music video budget into a child-sized piggy bank and have room to spare... but we knew that the best way to entice people to listen to our songs would be to include a visual element, so it was decided that we would bite the bullet and record our very first music video. We used the method that most poor rookies likely do when funds and resources are limited... we shot in Davey's mom's basement on a cellphone. Davey had the idea of a 4-panel video, each panel would showcase a different band member, performing in front of their own brightly colored light show. I was skeptical, but he promised it would be captivating and cheap, so we got busy taking turns holding the cellphone, aiming the lights, and doing our best to direct one another to smile, twirl, or look more rockstar-ish. Being that it was the first piece of content we had released as a band, people were curious, and we had a lot of views right out of the gate, we considered that first video -<a contents="The Summer That Johnny Drowned" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLlMYlWC3bA" target="_blank">The Summer That Johnny Drowned</a>- a small success. Feeling encouraged, we got busy planning the next video project.</p>
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<p>This time we decided to pay homage to a band that Davey had seen a few weeks prior named, <a contents="The Dead Deads" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://thedeaddeads.com/" target="_blank">The Dead Deads</a>. They had a fast-paced punk song called, <a contents='"Blackout"' data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScfZZGNMUBo" target="_blank">"Blackout"</a> and we went to work turning their angry rocker into a slow and melancholy ballad. Adorned with matching scowls and black eyeliner, Davey and I crooned for the single camera, which Danny Rampage cradled in one hand- a flashlight in the other, as he wove through the tiny room, somewhat haphazardly capturing shots. The Dead Deads ended up liking the song and shared the video to their band page, which garnered a bit of interest. We continued with this low-budget strategy for a couple more songs, but it soon became evident that to hold interest we needed to up the ante a bit.</p>
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<p>The first time we shot on-location was for "<a contents="Hazard Town" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stxd0FPW2ls" target="_blank">Hazard Town</a>." We set up shop in a frightening basement warehouse full of asbestos, loose electrical wires, and spiders. It was perfect! Davey laid out the hazmat suits, Danny hung the caution tape, and I spread chicken gizzards and fake blood all over the floor. Once we felt that the scene had been set to our disturbing satisfaction, we hauled in the lights, PA system, and camera crew... which was just one person, and he willingly accepted an on-screen role in the video as well. Thanks, Evan! This video was the first one where I also got to "act." I had a wonderful time flinging chicken skin at the camera while straddling the enemy, and still consider this role one of my best to date ;-) Davey Hazard is the master mind behind our music videos and I have to imagine that inside that brain of his there's a 5-ring circus happening at all times!</p>
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<p>After that shoot, we started to really get adventurous and did a series of multi-actor music videos. For "<a contents="Wasted Girl" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o9OW2AlJYU" target="_blank">Wasted Girl</a>" we were lucky enough to have a handful of willing volunteers who offered to portray the faceless, drone-like characters in Mercy Danger's deranged classroom. None of the ladies were trained actresses, but they truly embraced their roles and went the extra mile to give us a hilarious and authentic B-story. To capture "<a contents="Get Rich" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CK_53GBedJU" target="_blank">Get Rich</a>" we hired a trio of the metros most talented drag queens and asked them to do some interpretive dancing on-stage at the <a contents="Phoenix Theater" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.phoenixtheatermpls.org/" target="_blank">Phoenix Theater</a>. All I can say about that is, may my stage moves someday be as graceful and effortless as theirs! We were fortunate enough to snag a few local celebrities for "<a contents="Dirty City" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zW-VIqjd45Y" target="_blank">Dirty City</a>," which we actually did compile behind-the-scenes videos for. If you're interested in peeling back the curtain: "<a contents="BTS1" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/Ht848s-ZazQ" target="_blank">BTS1</a>" "<a contents="BTS2" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/zHRYqhcRQ68" target="_blank">BTS2</a>" You may be getting familiar with a few of our super hotties, who have played multiple roles, and who we thankfully know we can call on when we're in a pinch & need someone to come be a guinea pig for one of our little spectacles... or simply put on an alien mask and mime. </p>
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<p>More recently, we've done some upgrading of cameras, sets, and concepts thanks to the generosity of a handful of very supportive folks- so if you've seen "<a contents="Rocketman" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpp8TsFks4Q&authuser=1" target="_blank">Rocketman</a>," <a contents="Deathgrip" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXuXOz_FOuY&authuser=1" target="_blank">Deathgrip</a>," or "<a contents="Porno On The Radio" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAgNbhEOOds&authuser=1" target="_blank">Porno On The Radio</a>" then you hopefully can see the difference. We also have an amazing director, who will be moving back to L.A. soon, but to whom we owe many thanks. He has shaved years off my face with his lighting techniques, he is calm and collected when Davey presents him with hand scrawled and sometimes scattered shot lists, and he is a ray of positivity and humor- which is always a welcome combo! <a contents="Jon" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCw01n_EcTet_anW2Qq4nzCA" target="_blank">Jon</a>, you will be missed, but we'll see you in LA....</p>
<p>The next music video in queue is for "<a contents="Drones" data-link-label="" data-link-type="track" href="/track/1740439/drones" target="_blank">Drones</a>" and we're going back to a story-based concept. We'll have great local talent, special effects, lasers, and lots of twirls... so get ready!</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58964872019-09-23T09:29:09-05:002019-09-24T08:40:13-05:00#29 That's a Wrap!<p>I'm not sure if you all realize this- but summer officially ended today. This is a hard pill to swallow because I know what lies ahead for we Mid-Westerners. I want more sweaty patio shows and lazy days at the cabin... I don't want to have to dig out my damn ice cleats and plan for 2-hour commutes to and from my day job. I will say however, it was an amazing season for our little band- and it gave me a renewed sense of hope for a career in music and for humanity in general. </p>
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<p>June 21st was the first day of summer and we spent the weekend in Loring Park, participating in <a contents="Twin Cities&nbsp;Pride" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://tcpride.org" target="_blank">Twin Cities Pride</a>. We were honored to be performing on the main stage for the second year in a row, and the surge in audience attendance (for our set) from last year to this year was astonishing. Predictably, I was nervous that we would be playing to an empty expanse of grass, but you showed up and you made us feel the love that afternoon as the storm clouds rolled in and we warmed the stage for the glorious <a contents="TLC" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.musicinminnesota.com/tlc-at-twin-cities-pride/" target="_blank">TLC</a> crew. Backstage, we acted like a bunch of little kids- frolicking in our air-conditioned tent and holding our VIP lanyards close to our chests, like they held the answers to the universe. It was absolutely thrilling for us to see people singing along to our songs and we were amazed by how many wonderful folks came up after our set to connect with us. I honestly can't think of a better way to have kicked off our summer gigging season. I know that some of you couldn't be there because of geographical logistics, but if you were there, we saw you, and we thank you. </p>
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<p>The following weekend was our first road trip of the summer, and we actually got to ride together as a band. Up until that point we had been driving 3 vehicles to our gigs, which was not ideal for a multitude of reasons. We were bound for Sioux Falls and then Fargo in a borrowed SUV, pulling a U-haul trailer full of our gear. We had a terribly rocky start to the day with the U-haul brake lights malfunctioning and the company being unwilling to do anything about it. Poor Danny Rampage had to frantically find a shop that would take it in and fix it on the fly, as I sat at home alternately hyperventilating and making phone calls to curse out U-haul management. Traveling with 5 adult bodies in a small SUV for 720 miles really makes you appreciate deodorant- and the spaciousness of a van. It was on that trip that we found Vanna White online and vowed to bring her home. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/6ec3bb5bde6080c6c4089e64aec2ce2f150fba9a/original/img-0419.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/b652489b85e51e23180e96be0df66b309649e547/original/img-0447.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The next couple of weeks were filled with local patio shows, and a little hiatus, while Davey Hazard explored Scandinavia. He learned to appreciate the nuances of a good lutefisk and how to skillfully traverse the fjords. In his absence, I spent the week working at <a contents="She Rock She Rock" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://sherocksherock.org/" target="_blank">She Rock She Rock</a>, a local non-profit that puts on music camps around the metro for girls, trans, and non-binary kids. I've been doing this every summer for the past decade and it is one of the more rewarding things life has presented me with. Every year is different, and every year new songs fill my head, as these talented kids write what could be the next big hit! For those avid readers of the Danger Diaries, you know that it was a little hard for me to be without Davey. Our relationship is like that of siblings who squabble and disagree- but who also appreciate and admire one another. I was happy when he returned in one piece and we could commence writing! </p>
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<p>The following weekend we were victors up in Ashland, WI as we made the "Bay Area Battle of the Bands" our little bitch... just kidding, but we did get first place and it was a wild ride with some tough competition. When we arrived after a 5-hour drive, we were told there was inclement weather coming and the event was canceled. I went into crisis mode and was advised to do some deep breathing while Mary Mayhem called the National Weather Service and they disputed this claim. After a short delay, the battle commenced and we had a memorable time entertaining the Bay Days crowd. If you're late to the party and you missed the rest of that story, head to: <a contents="Danger Diaries #20" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bandzoogle.com/controlpanel/blogs/the-danger-diaries/posts/20-vanna-white/edit?blog_feature_id=276489">Danger Diaries #20</a> for a more elaborate description as well as the story of our maiden voyage in Vanna White. </p>
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<p>Our video release party at Mayslack's for <a contents="Porno On The Radio" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/OAgNbhEOOds" target="_blank">Porno On The Radio</a> turned out to be a fabulous party! Special thanks to our super Hotties who showed up clad in their hot pink wigs and <a contents="HPH logo shirts." data-link-label="Store" data-link-type="page" href="/store">HPH logo shirts.</a> We lovingly witnessed you rocking out to what was (up until that night) the longest electric set we had played. We even had a special guest show up for the party. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/fdfe252a1b03496c8d2206c3d6c7457eb773b4f6/original/img-0640.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Headlining Duluth-Superior Pride was a heart-warming experience and we cannot wait to be back with everyone in Bay Front Festival Park again next year. The Baystock festival also gets more and more lively each time we play it and this year was no exception. After a magical set under the pines we sat in front of a roaring bonfire and just as we'd finished our last sip of beer, the rains came. Vanna traversed her passengers through the logging trails of northern Wisconsin like a tank. Smoked fish, nature hikes, sunny days, and star-filled nights filled our weekend up in my beloved hometown. Read more in <a contents="#26" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bandzoogle.com/controlpanel/blogs/the-danger-diaries/posts/26-weekend-warrior-wrap-up/edit?blog_feature_id=276489">#26</a>. </p>
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<p>So there you have it, folks! Fall is here. We're gearing up for a handful of local <a contents="Bare Naked Benders" data-link-label="Shows" data-link-type="page" href="/shows">Bare Naked Benders</a>, another single release, and a few more surprises- but mainly we'll be focusing on recording our first full-length album!!! Danny Rampage has been hard at work at the drafting table, coming up with the latest poster in his themed seasonal series, which you can take a glimpse at below... availability for this item will be limited. <a contents="Sign our email list " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/product/335659" target="_blank">Get the pre-order</a> for first dibs. Hugs and kisses from yours truly and thanks for a great summer of 2019! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/product/335659" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/648171f4da22ce7720c5fc561b4c3d361b74aaad/original/hph-fall2019-posterv2-01.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58806632019-09-18T08:49:24-05:002019-10-02T08:05:14-05:00#28 Food for Thought<p>On my deathbed, if I was given the choice between a last meal or a last song, I'd really grapple with that decision.</p>
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<p>I've had the good fortune recently to dine at a few of the Twin Cities' most recommended restaurants and it's got me thinking- how might a band be able to make what they're offering more like a memorable meal? I would return over and over for the warm, spicy pork rinds at "<a contents="Tongue In Cheek" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://goo.gl/maps/TgUREW5g4PdcvdA37" target="_blank">Tongue In Cheek</a>" or an Old Fashioned at "<a contents="Whiskey Inferno" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://goo.gl/maps/2x668PHjSFVroSGN7" target="_blank">Whiskey Inferno</a>" but once people have come to a <a contents="Hot Pink Hangover&nbsp;concert" data-link-label="Shows" data-link-type="page" href="/shows" target="_blank">Hot Pink Hangover concert</a> and <a contents="bought our CDs" data-link-label="Store" data-link-type="page" href="/store" target="_blank">bought our CDs</a>, what more do we have to offer? We need to make our musical contributions something that folks will crave and want to return to enjoy again and again. We need them to experience Hot Pink Hangover hunger pangs!</p>
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<p>One of the most exciting things about dining out is who's sitting across from you- adding to your experience. Danny Rampage and I celebrated 5 years of wedded bliss at "<a contents="W.A. Frost" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://goo.gl/maps/dB9NGhon3zqCSgwWA" target="_blank">W.A. Frost</a>" the other night, thanks to our traveling adventurer friends who left a gift card on our kitchen table the last time they were in town. We dined on their renowned patio while mushroom pasta and tarragon cream sauce danced in my mouth. We talked about travel and art... and drank too many glasses of Prosecco. Our biggest hope as a band is that people will feel a similar sense of satisfaction after <a contents="a gig with us" data-link-label="Shows" data-link-type="page" href="/shows" target="_blank">a gig with us</a>! So come with a friend or two... dance to the music, maybe do some belly shots, cut loose, and make it an event that will create lasting memories for you and yours. "<a contents="The Hotties" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/1573239532783570/?source_id=574676429358616" target="_blank">The Hotties</a>" will be there to embrace you and show you a good time!</p>
<p>We dined with family at "<a contents="The Bachelor Farmer" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://goo.gl/maps/ikcbwLJJFCDA9GE79" target="_blank">The Bachelor Farmer</a>" earlier this week and I was awestruck by the amount of care and consideration our waiter offered as he tended to our every whim. Not only was he accommodating, but he had an immense amount of knowledge around the items on the plates he was serving. I had never seen milkweed pods on a menu before so I asked him to elaborate. He went on to describe the young, supple pods as well as the various foragers who bring in much of their locally-sourced, wild food. Next time I'm working our merch booth, I'm going to strive to connect with my friends and fans the way our waiter did that night. I can't boast that our tee shirts are made from locally sourced organic cotton or that our shot glasses are hand blown by a groovy artist on the West Bank... but our very own Danny Rampage created all of the visual appeal to <a contents="every item" data-link-label="Store" data-link-type="page" href="/store">every item</a> on our merch table and I'm proud of that!</p>
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<p>If anyone has a brilliant and strategic way for musicians to create an offering that will yield joy and satisfaction similar to a good nosh, I'm all ears. Maybe music needs to be more disposable. Either that, or we need to start manufacturing moonshine in sexy little leg lamp bottles and sell those in addition to our CDs...</p>
<p>So, if you were on your deathbed and had to choose, a last meal or a last song, which would it be?</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58856362019-09-12T13:13:54-05:002022-03-04T07:02:37-06:00#27 A Confession<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/e6574243aa762a606ef0625c8f3fdc006ef41376/original/img-2223.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Some of you have been curious about what I meant when I mentioned that the gigs of a couple weeks ago were a welcome morale boost. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE what I do in Hot Pink Hangover... but I'm not above a "bad day at the office."</p>
<p>A career in music for us has not looked like it does in the movies... We're not at the level where we're playing to packed houses, binge drinking with local influencers, or being chauffeured around in a luxurious motor coach. We're not living the high-life just yet! It's more like, late nights in 2-star hotels after schlepping gear through rain, mud, and sometimes vomit. It's half-full dive bars (which do hold a special place in my heart) and hoping Vanna White will get us from point A to point B without hitting a deer or popping a gasket. Mixed in with all that are the enthusiastic fans who make this deal worth doing. I truly feel like we could be playing the biggest dump in the world, but if there were receptive people in the audience it wouldn't matter. The Hotties are what matter more than anything to us. We had the honor of opening up for Badflower about a year ago, right before they broke, and they were being brutally honest with us in the green room. They were going through a lot of the same things we're going through right now. The roller coaster ride that is rock and roll... But about a month later they were playing <em>The Tonight Show</em>, so patience and hard work does pay off for some. Badflower is an amazing band with kind and incredibly talented members. Their ability to create authentic experiences for their fans is a huge part of why they're so popular. They give you something to relate to and they're not afraid to pull back the curtain and let you in. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>Believe me, I'd love to hide in the green room eating bon-bons and drinking bubbly before & after every show. I am an introvert and the thought of doing or saying something absurd or insulting is terrifying for me and it takes a lot of self-talk and courage to propel me into "Mercy mode." Good thing Mary Mayhem is never far away, to corral me away from self inflicted humiliation or harm... I just need to remember to check my feet for toilet paper, check my teeth for lipstick and check my attitude at the door. </p>
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<p>The bottom line is that music is something I have tried to step away from many times and I just can't stop coming back to it. I get jealous every time I see a band performing that isn't mine. Each time I turn on the radio in my car, I hope that maybe a song I wrote will be playing. I step onto every stage imagining a licensing exec is sitting in the front row ready to make me a millionaire. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, or maybe we're about to cross the threshold into rock stardom... Either way, I'm a born show-off and the spotlight is my favorite place to be, so I'm going to continue to push forward through the good, the bad, and the in between. Thanks for following the journey.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58821552019-09-05T17:49:04-05:002019-09-23T21:25:16-05:00#26 Weekend Warrior Recap<p>It's really easy to remember the bad shit. As a self-proclaimed pessimist of the highest degree, I almost always breeze over anything positive in leu of the dire. But last weekend was quite possibly the most fun I've ever had during my music career. Ironically, all this fun happened in the little town I left 10 years ago... Sometimes what we were looking for was right under our noses all along- we just have to be separated from it long enough to reveal its worth. In fact, that little sentiment is exactly what inspired our song, <a contents="Fly" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/GMEbyYQsNI8">Fl</a><a contents="Fly." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMEbyYQsNI8&feature=youtu.be">y.</a> The events of this past weekend were a reminder for <em>me</em> of what's important.</p>
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<p>We loaded Vanna White up once again with 4 bandmates, Mary Mayhem, and our favorite bartender and friend, Tanya -and headed North. We arrived at Bayfront Festival Park to the most welcoming group of folks I've ever encountered. Rainbow clad and smiling, they hugged our frames and kissed our cheeks, barely able to contain their excitement that we were playing Duluth-Superior Pride Festival this year. We received the most wonderful reception anyone could ever hope to be graced with from the beautiful Twin Ports LGBTQ+ community. I'll never forget it. </p>
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<p>We got to play the stately stage neighboring Canal Park, in front of a jubilant group of new fans. Tents, flags, and lovely painted faces were what we looked out onto as Lake Superior gently kissed our backs song after song. It's not Carnegie Hall, but to me, it doesn't get much better than that. It was a perfect evening and I can't wait to return next year. We were treated like royalty by everyone involved, which was the morale boost we desperately needed. We rolled back onto the highway as the sun was setting, with a sense of rejuvenation and hope. That night, we sat around a campfire, had some refreshments, and gazed up at the brightest stars any of us had ever seen. We needed a win and we got one. </p>
<p>The next morning we went on a 4-mile hike out to the sea caves. In the winter you can walk the ice out to this frigid tourist destination, but we had the luxury of 70 degree weather and seeing it all from above. We ate local smoked fish and foraged for berries. After we all gave our tickers a nice workout, we headed back to the homestead to prepare for the evening's events.</p>
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<p>Our show that night was at a secret festival in the middle of the woods. Throw your cellphone in the trunk, (because you won't have reception while engulfed in the massive maze of logging trails) grab some gummies and a flask, and you're ready to party at Baystock. The roaring bonfire is stoked day and night. The generator is hidden somewhere in the woods behind the gorgeous covered stage, which is built at the base of a natural amphitheater among the pines. The attendees are salt-of-the-earth folk who just want to be surrounded by music and like-minded souls all weekend. We rolled in and played what I consider to be our best set to date. Something about the energy of the people, Mother Nature, and our music co-mingling was mind-blowing... and I was sober as a judge. The rains came right after we'd had the chance to drink a beer and enjoy the final band. </p>
<p>I'll be riding the natural high last weekend provided my mind and body for some time. This was truly what we all needed (perhaps me especially) to wake our asses up and remind us why we do this in the first place. Sometimes we're able to share the greatest sides of ourselves where we're most comfortable... and for me, evidently that's back home. </p>
<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58697992019-08-25T20:51:29-05:002019-09-23T21:21:11-05:00#25 Small-Town Strip-Tease<p>I, like many people, have struggled with body image. In grade school I was teased relentlessly for my big teeth and the high water pants I was embarrassingly too tall for. In high school when all my friends were at the mall bra shopping, I was furtively cursing their growing chests and wondering if I would ever have a reason to cross the threshold of Victoria's Secret. My weight has yo yo'd for much of my life and I've learned that you can be both too fat and too skinny according to some... Thankfully I'm a lot more comfortable in my skin now than I was in my younger days and I owe it all to Community theater.</p>
<p>It was 2006, and I had been called to audition for the lead role in an upcoming adaptation of "Gypsy-" a risque little burlesque revue based on the life of Gypsy Rose Lee. I was given the role and then it was explained to me that every night when the curtains opened, I was to deliver my lines, sing my songs, and strip for the townspeople in the audience. This was rural Wisconsin. My old high school teachers, the parents of kids I had babysat, and <em>my</em> <em>parents </em>were all likely to be in attendance, and would witness me disrobing on stage. I hated the idea of this- but I loved the idea of local celebrity, so I embraced the role and I did what was necessary to capture the essence of the character as well as entertain the crowd. </p>
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<p>For those unaware of the story of Gypsy Rose Lee, she was a depression era child performer who was constantly upstaged by her younger sister and ended up broke, unemployed, and out on the streets. One evening she was approached by a desperate stranger who asked her to fill in for one of his burlesque dancers who had ended up in prison. While performing, one of her dress straps accidentally gave way, causing her gown to fall to the floor. This fashion faux-pas wound up being her signature move for years to come as she took the world by storm with her tasteful strip-tease. She was a classy dame though. She always wore lingerie or choreographed the use of a large-brimmed hat to quickly shield her lady bits as her dress was falling. </p>
<p>So during the entire run of "Gypsy," I sang my songs, I shed my clothes, and I learned that it's just a body. I'm not advocating for stripping- nor am I criticizing it. I'm simply sharing the fact that for me, It took getting nearly naked in front of 200 people night after night to achieve body acceptance. No one told me I was too fat- or too skinny. They didn't comment on my poor posture or my small chest. Rather, they complimented my singing voice. They commended the way I courageously got into character. I haven't done any burlesque since then, but whenever I'm having a bad body image day, I consider submitting an application to one of the local troops so I can put myself back in check. No body is perfect, but yours can be perfect to you- if you believe it. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/072e6b3788c5b0107bf4707437cdf2620a08c25d/original/hph-potr-ig-promoimage4.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58620382019-08-18T21:30:00-05:002019-09-23T21:13:58-05:00#24 Vanna White Gets a Black Eye<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f37a0239aaf51450301bae2014e2256014d497b2/original/img-0675.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Each time we hop into our newly acquired jalopy, Vanna White, for a regional gig, a feeling of excitement and accomplishment comes over us. She's the proof that we're a working band with a tour van!!! Having a handful of lengthy trips already under our belts, Vanna has consistently shown us that she's as road-worthy as she is rusty! I won't say we took her for granted, but It was starting to feel as though we were invincible when we were strapped into the safety of her bosom and she was flying all of us down the highway... until Saturday night.</p>
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<p>We had finished a lively acoustic show in Mason City, Iowa and were experiencing the post-gig high after a very warm welcome from the locals. We had opted to save a few bucks and forego a hotel room in exchange for sleeping in the comfort of our own beds, knowing that choice came at the expense of a pretty late night on the road. Mary Mayhem's brother and his gal were in town and had joined us for the gig, so the 7 of us piled into the van and headed Northbound- screaming down the highway at 70 mph. We were tired but we were laughing & joking, and Vanna was making great time. We were slotted to roll back into Minneapolis around 1:45 a.m.</p>
<p>I was looking out one of the side windows, so what happened exactly is kind of a blur to me- but I remember the impact. I heard the squealing tires and the fear in all of our voices as Vanna White struggled to balance her weight as she veered and tipped onto her two diver's side wheels, nearly careening into the ditch sideways. I pictured the van tipping over, the window breaking against my face while being crushed to death by Davey Hazard, who was seated next to me in the very back... Instead, Vanna righted herself, slammed back onto the blacktop, did some clumsy pirouettes, and finished her Dukes of Hazard style performance by facing the wrong direction in the middle of I35 in a cloud of tire smoke and dust. Vanna White is a badass bitch. We shared a grateful moment of silence and then disembarked to assess the damages that the big doe had caused our poor van. Her grill was cracked, her blinker light completely gone- a sole connection wire flapping in the breeze, and her fender had been crushed inward, causing the flattest tire I daresay I've ever seen. Although she looked a bit defeated, in the grand scope, her damages were minimal. </p>
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<p>Now, I have to believe that although this certainly dampened our moods, the fates were smiling on us. We hadn't tipped over. We weren't in the ditch. The deer we hit I have to assume had unfortunately lost it's life- but we hadn't lost ours... and we had a spare tire ready to slap on our old girl. Luckily, Lenny Renagade had even had the foresight to throw a toolbox in with our gear, so we had everything we needed to try to remedy our situation. But thunder clouds were starting to roll in and a lightening storm was indicating that we didn't have a lot of time to get this done. Mary Mayhem's brother, Mike came to the rescue. A rough and tumble farm boy with a mechanical tenacity, he got to work- and despite the jack handle snapping in two as he was hoisting our trusty rig high enough to make the tire switch, he had the task completed before AAA even answered the phone. </p>
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<p>Vanna had just been put through the ringer and we needed to air up her new tire and get gas, so we stopped at a service station to bandage the last of her wounds. Danny Rampage had just stepped out of the vehicle to fill her up when the sky turned orange, the winds started to whip, and a torrential downpour left us sitting next to the pump, shaking from the forceful gusts of a roadside gale. I was convinced we were caught in a tornado and this time had visions of us being sucked into a cyclone, "Wizard of Oz" style, and getting decapitated by my own guitar case. Davey Hazard tried to console me as I shuddered and sobbed in the back seat, wondering why God hated me so much. </p>
<p>We rolled into Minneapolis around 4 a.m. emotionally drained, but grateful for everyone who played a part in getting us home safely. This week I'll be doing my best to restore Vanna's good looks- but she may have some permanent bruises from this escapade. I call it character. </p>
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<p>When I was young, my parents were "back to the landers" meaning: they lived a simple life in a log home they built themselves with trees they hewed and fitted. We didn't have running water so we relied on the heat of a sauna to cleanse our bodies. There was a hand pump in the front yard where we could dredge up the sweet, irony tasting water which ran below the land my parents hunted and farmed. My dad sang in a rock band and my mom kept the home fires burning all day, 7 days a week. She handmade every article of clothing I donned. She gardened, canned, built furniture, did home repairs, and still made time to read a book to me before bed every night. I was a lucky kid in a lot of ways.</p>
<p>This past week, my mom and 9 year old niece were here visiting (which is the reason for my tardiness with the blog) and I tried to give my niece some of the experiences I had as a child. Sure, I took her to Circus Juventas and I bought her an overpriced Caribou Coffee- but I also took her to a laundromat and showed her how to find lost, overlooked, or abandoned quarters. She made $1.50 just patiently keeping her eyes to the floor! We went thrifting and I taught her that she can get twice the school clothes for half the price. And I wager that she'll be the trendiest kid in her class. I also took her dumpster diving. I know- this sounds like a terribly irresponsible activity to subject a 9 year old girl to... but she recalls it as her favorite part of her stay (a gal after my own heart!) We found so many treasures in that big bin. At one point, she proudly exclaimed, while waist deep in rubble, "one girl's garbage is another girl's treasure!" I bet she'll remember these off-kilter experiences with her weird aunt forever. </p>
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<p>Sometimes the most valuable things are the simplest. I had 4 days with my mom & niece, and while they were here I put the rest of the world on hold. When it was time to say goodbye to them, the voice messages and emails were still there. But I recognize that it was really important for me to take a few days with my family and totally unplug. We all need that every now and again. I'll let you in on a little secret: Davey Hazard rejuvenates with a calming massage, Lenny Renegade with a long run outdoors, and Danny Rampage with a good Bourbon & enlightening conversation. Hopefully my readers have had the chance to do some restorative activities recently. If you have and you'd like to share how you recharge, tell me all about it in the comments. I love to hear from you! I get that we're all busy and that our phones & computers are a big part of our self-created chaos, but being given that brief reminder of simpler times was wonderful and necessary. I'll hold onto those memories long after my inbox is empty.</p>
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<p> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58443762019-08-02T15:29:51-05:002019-09-23T20:56:43-05:00#22 Sailboats and Sparrows<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/773f84f46e4ba79f7614a072da60456c8eac5c93/original/img-1583.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Last week, I detailed my dire time at bible camp and this week, I was brought to tears by a local Christian band... I know, what a paradox! </p>
<p>Danny Rampage and I have a couple of friends who recently sold everything they owned and bought a little sail boat. Not lacking ambition, they acquired some maps, packed a few snacks and sailed past the Great Lakes, through the Eerie Canal, down the Hudson River and out into New York Harbor. At which point, they nodded at one another in agreement and just kept going south until eventually, they will never have to see snow again. These brave nautical misfits were in town for a couple of weeks and on Monday, we decided to head downtown Saint Paul to see what was going on. It turns out what you'll find in DT Saint Paul presently, is a lot of noise and dust from the countless "improvements" taking place on nearly every block. Navigating all the orange cones while trying to avoid falling into a hole was becoming increasingly bothersome, so we decided to head indoors to the Saint Paul Hotel for a peaceful drink, where we could at least hear one another speak. While making our way to the entrance, I was struck by the music of two female sirens who were entertaining in the city square.</p>
<p>I couldn't see them, but their voices beckoned and drew us near, until we were standing in front of the most angelic harmonies and effortless acoustic guitar playing I have ever witnessed in person. I'm not typically one to dish out a compliment unless I whole-heartedly feel it is deserved and when I say that I was crying tears of joy by the sounds that these musicians were putting out into the universe, I'm not lying. How this group is not famous is baffling! Their lyrics were uplifting, their demeanor was calming and their music... pure acoustic bliss. I'm not religious, as I've said before- but serendipitously being in the audience for this inspiring street performance WAS a religious experience! The group is called, <a contents="Sparrows Rising" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://sparrowsrising.com/">Sparrows Rising</a> and if you dig acoustic music you should check out a live show because, as live performances should be- theirs is even better than the cds. </p>
<p>So there you have it... a music review of sorts! You never know what you're going to get here at the #DangerDiaries. Stay tuned because I may decide to throw in some of Lenny Renegade's family recipes or the secret to Danny Rampage's lustrous locks, or maybe even give you a peek inside a Davey Hazard songwriting session. Feel free to tell me about a concert that made a lasting impression on you in the comments below. As always, thanks so much for reading, Hotties. XOXO</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/789f27f33a910f82261e061a29112bc00b2bd827/original/img-2266-1.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58387832019-07-27T13:13:57-05:002019-09-23T20:50:16-05:00#21 Hail Mary<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/740d3843b692051f0c69a1469bdf4bc15b954d0e/original/hail-mary.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I can remember the day my mom dropped me off at bible camp. I wasn't religious, but I was so excited to spend a week with my friends, surrounded by nature, singing around a campfire, doing arts & crafts, and catching sunfish off the dock. I waved as the car drove away down the wooded drive and then went off in search of a familiar face. As it turned out, my parents had signed me up for the wrong camp, and my friends were all frolicking at one of the other 10,000 Minnesota lakes. </p>
<p>I didn't have much prior experience with church, so naturally, I felt like an outsider. I fumbled my way through the "our Father's" and tried my best to remember not to pick up my dinner fork until one of the camp counselors had said a little prayer, but all in all I was miserable at that camp. I couldn't help but picture my friends having an absolute gas together, wherever they were- while I was doing my best to tolerate my irritating cabin mate and memorize psalms. I called my mom, crying, several times a day until she caved and came to retrieve her little heathen. I pulled the same stunt in college, but I'll save that story for another time.<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/2099d1aa91cd6214e99a3ff44a6d0decdf2d3f46/original/img-0639.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />The point of this tragic little childhood tale is that a feeling of belonging is something we all crave and we all deserve. The memories I have of bible camp are very negative because I felt unaccepted- and unfortunately I tend to remember the bad things more often than the good. Fast forward to the present and the same is true. Luckily I have a solid support system to see me through the murky waters and a band of brothers who always have my back. Last night we played a show at Mayslack's and as I looked out into the audience at the smiling faces of folks who have found something meaningful in the music & the environment that we're creating, I felt an overwhelming sense of kinship to everyone in the room. The energy from our friends, family, and fans was intoxicating and I knew I belonged. The next time I get a wild hair up my ass and decide to sign up for bible camp, I'm taking you all with me. ;-)</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/9f76928e1b56fec6cb363c147e1312603643e2fb/original/the-hotties.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58318572019-07-21T21:48:05-05:002020-06-30T09:30:21-05:00#20 Vanna White<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/a9773c8ad4610d517b88aa0fa6d1e0030f6bf48f/original/img-0627.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>As some of you may have noticed, Hot Pink Hangover has been playing a fair amount of regional gigs this summer. Up until recently, we had no choice but to either take 3 cars (which is incredibly uneconomical) or borrow a bigger vehicle from one of our parents and rent a U-Haul trailer (which is incredibly uncool at our age.) So, we bit the bullet and bought a big old band van. She has a sordid past, but I think her future with us is bright... We named her Vanna White. Thrilled to be riding together in comfort for the first time, we piled into our tour vehicle and embarked on her maiden voyage up to Ashland, WI and back down to Houston, MN, then home. Despite having quite a few notable quirks going in, I am happy to report that our little jalopy made the 665-mile trip without issue!</p>
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<p>I'm the type of person who automatically visualizes the worst possible scenario in every situation. It's a trait that drives poor Davey Hazard crazy (because I can't help but share my irrational concerns with anyone in ear-shot) but I think it's a coping mechanism so that I can avoid disappointment by being psychologically prepared for endless catastrophe. In my mind, we were broken down on the side of the road 100 miles from our destination, being ransacked by road-side bandits, while caught in a tornado. Thankfully none of my inner thoughts came to fruition. </p>
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<p>The weather <em>was </em>frighteningly unpredictable, however. When we arrived in Ashland to play a battle of the bands, we were told the event was canceled because of the impending 80 MPH straight-line winds and hailstorms. I nearly fainted at this news. As fortune would have it, the storm went south, we went into battle, and we won! Our next show was at a festival in the middle of nowhere and the trip took us through some of the most beautiful landscapes I've ever seen. We stared in awe at the lush rolling terrain, the jagged bluffs regally jutting out from the hillsides, and the idyllic little farms spattered among the green fields. Unfortunately, the festival had been hit by a series of storms and morale seemed a bit low in general, but we played our set with gusto, met a few new folks, and then headed back onto the open road where we were met by a stunning sunset with clouds resembling a layer cake constructed by heaven's own baker. </p>
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<p>I'm not sure what people think of when they hear the phrase "We're going on tour." Do they think of glamorous green-rooms stocked with beef tartare and Prosecco? Or performing in front of a sea of adoring fans who chant your name while enthusiastically raising their cell phone lights towards the sky? Though we haven't gotten to experience any of that yet, what we have experienced time and again are truly amazing fans who we genuinely connect with and who we want to serve. We've learned that being on the road is a serious grind and not for the faint of heart. It's late nights schlepping gear through mud or snow, it's trying to make the healthiest choice you can when presented with an array of gas station convenience foods, and it's hour-after-hour in close proximity to other people who may or may not have showered (I'm usually the latter.) But it is also the beauty of the road, the thrill of the stage, and the heartfelt connection that- if you're reading this, I have to believe you’ve experienced at one point or another. Believe me, I have. XOXO Stay tuned for more chronicles from the road. ;-)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/dda98f0636aaf7318b3179b620ad91174691aad0/original/img-0595.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58236512019-07-13T16:25:32-05:002021-08-17T19:48:14-05:00#19 What's in a name?<p>The night I was born, my parents were in a head-on car collision that jarred me loose. I came into the world early and agitated.</p>
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<p>Those were the days when nobody wore a seat belt and cars didn't have airbags. My parents had bought some acreage outside of Deer River (a financially and historically depressed area of northern MN) and were a couple of free spirits, living off the land. They and the family dog had been to town and were preparing to traverse the dark country roads, back to their hand-built cabin in the woods, when a pair of headlights appeared on the horizon. As they neared, it was evident that the car was driving right toward them. My dad had a buddy who was notorious for playing chicken with anyone he came upon while behind the wheel, and, assuming it was his jovial pal, he stayed his course. When it became clear that the motorist was either having a crisis or was on a suicide mission, my dad attempted to swerve to avoid hitting them. Unfortunately, he did it a few seconds too late and the vehicles collided. My mom flew forward and broke the windshield with her head. The stunned dog ambled out of the car and headed for my grandparent's house a mile or so down the road. His frantic barking on their doorstep was a clear indication that something was amiss. Once responders showed up, my mom was taken to the hospital to be observed. The nurses were picking glass out of her forehead and trying to ascertain her physical condition, being that she was both heavy with child and in a great deal of distress. Shortly after, her water broke and little baby Danger was ready to tango! My poor mom, delivering her first child after having just been tossed into a windshield, head aching, scared, and now, without a vehicle.</p>
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<p>It was roughly 4 a.m. when I made my first appearance. My parents had already decided to name me "Sasha" regardless of my sex, after having seen Dr. Zhivago. My middle name, however, was chosen by Dr. Goodall- the family physician who not only delivered me but both of my little brothers a few years later. He said he had always wanted to deliver a baby girl named, Mercedes. That day he got his wish. Folks may call me Mercy Danger these days, but I was born to two struggling, young back-to-the-landers, who named their little girl, Sasha Mercedes. I came into this world with a force and I hope to BE a force while I'm in it. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/c832cbee9db5e8f8e0425157a7317415e928209e/original/img-2278.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58159962019-07-07T10:47:06-05:002019-09-23T20:33:50-05:00#18 Writer's Block<p>My songwriting partner, Davey Hazard has left the country for Scandinavia and without him, I'm having writer's block already. </p>
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<p>Since that fateful jam session roughly 3 years ago, Davey and I have never spent more than a couple of days apart. We don't always see eye to eye when we're working together and we definitely annoy the shit out of each other at times (me with my incessant gloom & doom outlook and he with his germophobic tendencies) but now he's gone for two weeks, and I'm having trouble even completing this blog... He told me that he'd FaceTime me every day, but I know that's not realistic and even if he did, we would just stare awkwardly at one another and make weird sounds until one of us lied and said we had to go. I understand that it's time to loosen my lead-singer leash, and just let him have a good time. </p>
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<p>When Davey and I met, I was in a very dark spot, creatively. I had released two solo albums of songs I thought were brilliant but never achieved any critical acclaim and I had written a score for a movie that was never released. I was incredibly jaded with the music industry and honestly thought that I may never write again. But Davey Hazard, with his Ken Doll smile and his positive whimsey, plopped himself down in front of me with a guitar and a notebook and proved me wrong. It turns out I actually do have more to say...</p>
<p>Up until that point, I had taken lyric writing so seriously that I would let it become a roadblock. If a lyric wasn't perfect, if it didn't blow the listener's mind, it just wasn't good enough. Davey came in and taught me not to overthink the process. Sometimes it's more about how a phrase rolls off the tongue than the meaning behind it. He showed me that you can write a song in 20 minutes and it can actually be really good! Granted, not everything we've written is album worthy, but it's funny how often the two of us sit down for a writing session, and our nervous energy is suddenly harnessed and converted into a cleverly crafted little musical gem. Some of the gems need more buffing than others, but we have about 40 songs under our belts now and enough to keep Dr. Joey Caustic busy recording us for years! </p>
<p>So Davey, if you're reading this, go enjoy yourself out there in Scand-land, but know that I'll be counting down the days until we can get back to work, get back to creating, and get back to annoying each other. ;-)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/b5ea3fc0588462f1232683085206ce529a917003/original/img-1356.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/58021352019-06-26T10:49:40-05:002019-06-30T12:18:37-05:00#17 Universal Language<p>When I would get a crush on someone, I would go to great lengths to be in close geographical proximity to them. I wouldn't stalk them, mind you... I just wanted to be near those I loved. So when I fell in love with a brooding Macedonian waiter, it didn't matter that I had never even heard of his homeland or that I knew absolutely nothing about this tarnished little jewel of Eastern Europe. I did what was easiest to accomplish my proximity desires and I just moved to Macedonia. </p>
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<p>When I landed in Skopje (the capital city of this tiny, land-locked, former Yugoslav nation) I learned that my luggage had been lost in transit. I was so excited to be off the plane and starting my new life that I didn't even mind! It was New Year's Eve, so the likelihood of my bags being located and returned to me was slim to none. In fact, it ended up taking almost 2 weeks for me to get my suitcase back. People talk about "island time" ...well I'm convinced there's also a "Macedonian time," where things just move a little bit slower and nothing is ever urgent. I'd had to head to the Roma markets across the river to find myself a few inexpensive duds to wear in the interim. Macedonian women tend to be much smaller than Americans, though. So there I was, standing out like a sore thumb: The foreign girl in the ill-fitting jeans and skin-tight pleather jacket. But I was in my new home and I was eager to adjust.</p>
<p>My first order of business was to find a job. I'd heard about a meeting of ex-pats that was happening down the street, so I decided to show up and try to do some networking. For those of you who know me well, you know that I would rather do just about anything than "network." I'm socially awkward, have trouble looking people in the eye, and tend to feel like I have a severe communication defect whenever I get into any large social situation. But I put on my big girl pants (literally) and I did my best to rub elbows with the Ambassadors and the rich wives of dignitaries & diplomats. I ended up getting a job lead and finding a running partner- a girl from Chicago who had also just arrived in the country to be with her Macedonian boyfriend. This was a person whom I wouldn't normally hand select as being a buddy (for reasons I won't get into) but I think we both knew we were desperate for companionship and familiarity, so we made it work. We ended up running together every day and even spent a long weekend in Greece, but once I left Macedonia, we never spoke again. </p>
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<p>My job lead was at a school. The general rule was that Americans were good for two things: spending money and teaching English. So my sights were set on teaching. I arrived to find that this school was a series of shipping containers turned into classrooms. Students from all over the world were holed up in those containers, speaking a flurry of languages and sharing a multitude of cultural experiences. The school's director came out to meet me and actually sat down to inquire about my interests over a cup of coffee. I described my life back home and how music played a large part and I watched as a smile came across his face. He lit up and said that I needed to meet the music director of the school.</p>
<p>Chris was a vibrant, German genius. He played every instrument, was fluent in 5 languages, and was a vegan hippie (which is a feat in its self in meat-loving Macedonia.) He had a beautiful, musical family, who became like my own while I was there. He was so excited to hear that I was a songwriter and had been in rock bands. He asked me to sit in on the drums while his students played through something they'd been working on. Luckily, I was the drummer in a surf-rock band back home so I was able to grant his request. After that, he asked me to play one of my own songs. He and his students listened politely. When I finished, he enthusiastically hired me on the spot to teach his students to write & perform. It was a dream job.</p>
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<p>Our students played gigs all over the city. We did a weekly open mic at the school to keep them practiced (and to keep the teachers practiced as well) and we watched as these young people gained confidence, musical chops, and a special camaraderie with one another. Music of course is the universal language, and even though these kids came from differing backgrounds, they could communicate as one through song. Before I went back home for the summer, the kids had a chance to perform for the Ambassador to the United States. It was an incredibly impactful time for me- and to be honest, I didn't even miss playing gigs. I was playing them vicariously through the kids. I hadn't written a song or performed in 2 years, yet I was completely fulfilled.</p>
<p>Eventually, my Macedonian man and I went our separate ways, but the experience of being involved at that school with Chris is a highlight of my life. I'm hopeful that one day I'll get to introduce my husband to he and his family. I can imagine us gathered around the table, eating a vegan feast, laughing, singing, and discussing music- & the way it has changed all of our lives for the better... </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57995752019-06-21T19:08:23-05:002021-12-23T13:50:18-06:00#16 Drowning<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/16a1d034f694738a51970d69229c104befe9e048/original/16849c66-b8a9-412b-adff-15428af3ee0f.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpeg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When I was five, I nearly drowned. We were living in a charming little trailer park, just steps from Lake Superior. A nautical museum now stands at the site where a handful of forgotten folks built their lives, but I have many fond memories of my family's brief stint in that tightly knit community. There was the giant willow tree, which stood grandly in the center, shading our humble metal homes and providing endless climbing opportunities. The circular dirt path, which wound around the properties was where I first learned to ride a bicycle. And of course, there were the countless hours spent frolicking on the shores of the mightiest freshwater force I've ever encountered. </p>
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<p>My dad's band mates had come to town for a visit. They and their children were sprawled out on the beach enjoying a perfect afternoon on the bay. The bass player's oldest son and I were showing off for each other by doing cartwheels and headstands in the water. He decided to see how far he could wade out into the water without going over his head. Not wanting to be left alone or outdone, I followed. The problem was that I was several inches shorter than him and evidently I hadn't been taught how to doggie paddle, because suddenly my lungs began to take on water, a wave went over my head, and the sunbathing parents were the last thing I saw before everything went black. </p>
<p>My next memory was "coming to" back up on the beach, my dad simultaneously scolding and cradling me. He had leaped in fully clothed and dragged me out before I sank like a stone. I was really embarrassed, but I suppose I was thankful someone was paying enough attention to notice that I had gone under. The big lake isn't picky about who she pulls into her unforgiving grips. I've known several people who weren't as lucky as I was that day. My parents made it a priority to teach me how to swim and I never again took for granted the power of Mother Nature. </p>
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<p>In fact, it has been a huge inspiration in terms of my songwriting. Much of my catalog includes water references, and It has carried over into the writings of Davey Hazard and I in Hot Pink Hangover as well. One of the earliest songs he and I penned was, <a contents='"The Summer That Johnny Drowned."' data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLlMYlWC3bA&feature=youtu.be">"The Summer That Johnny Drowned."</a> Many folks have asked what the song is about and I always have to ask, "What is it about to YOU?" As songwriters, we provide a blueprint and a foundation- but it is up to you, the listener, to design the details- which will naturally be based around your own experiences. Is it about a loved one drowning (or nearly drowning)? Is it a metaphor for feeling overcome by waves of guilt, pain or passion? Is it about drowning in a relationship? Any art form is open to unending interpretation. If a song were completely literal, it probably wouldn't have the same impact because we couldn't assign our own narrative to it. So- expect many more loosely constructed, metaphorical little ditties from us! And also enjoy a little visual representation of the aforementioned song, through the artistic lens of Sargent Danny Rampage as he unveils the latest in his custom, hand illustrated, seasonal posters. Like it?! It can be yours soon! <a contents="Sign our email list " data-link-label="Contact" data-link-type="page" href="/contact">Sign our email list </a>for first dibs! </p>
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<p>As always, thanks for stopping by and feel free to share your take on "The Summer That Johnny Drowned" in the Comments section. We love to hear from you!</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57734992019-06-12T12:59:42-05:002019-06-22T09:35:52-05:00#15 Separation Anxiety<p>As a young kid, I would get so incredibly homesick, I would rarely leave my house. At school I would hide in the closet and sob while simultaneously working myself up into a legitimate state of physical illness. Even as a college student, I ended up going into a deep depression when forced into a dorm room away from the comforts of home, despite my encouraging and comical roommate. After several weeks existing in the doldrums and calling my mom, crying night after night, she caved. She came and rescued me, and I enrolled in a community college in a neighboring town so I could return to the nest. Once I had finished the semester there, I was feeling bold enough to transfer to a school in the next state over, and moved in with my grandparents… I know, a big step. My grandparents packed my lunch every day, we ate dinner together every night and truly the situation didn’t do much for my separation anxiety, being coddled to that extent. But bless their souls for the compassion they bestowed upon their fragile little granddaughter! </p>
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<p>Fast forward two years and I was on a one-way flight to Prague with my then band mates as we set our sights on becoming the next Velvet Underground. We had a one bedroom flat to stay in for a bit with a fellow American who had gone over there years prior and made a little life for himself as a musician and English teacher. We landed, piled into a tiny cab with all of our gear, and we headed to a bar to enjoy a nice Pilsner Urquell & some goulash. I honestly didn’t even think to give my parents a call. I’m not sure what happened after I graduated and left my grandparent’s house, but whatever it was, it broke me of my psychological affliction. </p>
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<p>I would love to say that while over in the Czech Republic we took the nation by storm with our musical prowess and our lyrical genius, but sadly, that isn’t how it went… We played a handful of open mics and small showcases, I ended up having a brief but toxic relationship with our flat host, and just a few weeks after our arrival, 9/11 happened- so we couldn’t return home even if we wanted to. Having no other choice, I settled in for a bit. My dear friend, and the guitarist of our band decided that a trip to the country would be good. So we rented a little car and he and I traveled into South Moravia in search of ancient ruins. He had a tattered map which he had acquired God knows where, depicting the sites of several abandoned castles. He picked one out and we made our way down a series of cobble-stoned roads, whose names I couldn’t pronounce until we hit a small foot path, which was purported to lead to a castle. The sun had long since set, as we ambled down the windy path, guided by moonlight until we hit a gate. It wasn’t locked so we went inside. It was hard to tell the size of the castle, whether or not it was inhabited, or if there were armed guards just waiting for foolish American trespassers. But we bravely pressed on into the old courtyard, which is where we laid our sleeping bags for the night and attempted to sleep through the sounds of rustling leaves, screech owls, and light drops of rain that had begun to fall. Morning finally arrived and the sight we awoke to was sheer bliss. A moat surrounded the walled fortress, whose tower reached towards the clouds. The fall colors were vibrant and the ancient relic of a building stood defending its place in history, through years of war, generations of tenants and many, many migrations. We were awestruck. After meeting the young caretakers and getting some photos we headed for town. We found a tiny, rustic place for coffee and cereal and then continued on our way, still mesmerized by the beauty we had just witnessed, all because we took a chance and left our comfort zones. </p>
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<p>That experience definitely made me more open to the idea of taking risks. It’s something that we find ourselves doing almost daily with the band now. Whether it’s going-live without any idea what we’re going to say, booking a festival in the middle of nowhere, or writing a song with a controversial message… In fact, right now, we have several gigs booked out of state this summer- with no band van to get to them, so we are actively trying to figure out how to maneuver that obstacle- but it’s better than having to say no to the gig! I know we’ll figure it out. We’re really thinking outside the box lately and are closer than we’ve ever been as a group. Living in fear and panic is not something I want to return to. I got my fill of that feeling as a kid. Time to be brave, be smart and be willing to leave the nest to fly with a different flock.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f82e59b8f50c6d46b57e930678d1a54f9ceec019/original/hph-grarage.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57753622019-06-05T19:34:04-05:002019-06-06T10:28:53-05:00#14 The big day... <p>I’ve started going to therapy again in an effort to get a handle on my anxiety. </p>
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<p>I go into a state of restless panic if the dishes aren’t put away. Clothing left on the floor will cause me to feel a heavy sense of impending doom, and God forbid if the bed isn’t made…That will just ruin my entire day. Right now, there is a drum kit stacked in the corner of the dining room that almost reaches the ceiling and every time I look at it I shudder and almost faint. My hypochondria, the political climate, big Hot Pink Hangover gigs, my general feelings on the state of humanity after a rough commute, or the angle in which I have placed my table setting can all play a role in the onset of anxiety. So, yeah, I have some issues I guess. Please feel free to share your own little neurosis or phobias in the comments so I don’t feel so alone. Maybe we can start a support group. </p>
<p>I have to be honest with you. This week I am Completely! Freaking! Out! For those of you who didn’t know, it’s the week of our <a contents="CD Release Party" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/event/2696957/497124840/wasted-in-3d-release-party">CD Release Party</a>- a.k.a. our biggest gig of the year. We have single-handedly organized this soiree, and its success or failure depends 100% on us. No pressure! I’ve been snorting my lavender nasal inhaler, drinking calming tea, and making some half-assed attempts at mindfulness exercises (that I basically just invented myself) but nothing seems to be working. I’ve managed to make myself sick with worry yet again. The only thing that will ease my nerves at this point, is when show day arrives, and I’m decorating the theater, putting out the champagne, donning my costume, and doing the sound check. I will have a feeling of calm come over me as I always do. At that point, we will have done what we can, and it will be up to you, our amazing fans, to decide how you want to spend your Saturday night- and your dollars. With so many choices available to you, we're always thrilled by the idea that some of you want to spend those things with us. </p>
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<p>After the <a contents="CD&nbsp;release party" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/event/2696957/497124840/wasted-in-3d-release-party">CD release party</a>, we’ll be dropping a risqué new music video for the next single, heading out on some small regional tours, writing new material, & starting to record the next batch of songs (which you all have been very patient with!) For now, I just need to focus on not hyperventilating. Saturday’s show is about YOU! We just want to share the experience with our beloved Hotties! We’ll be unveiling some new material and a few fun little surprises. For those of you who keep coming back for more of the Hot Pink Hangover Show- you are the life blood of the band. As Freddie Mercury once said, "We belong to you."</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/75cbeeff43084f4c8a8fac4dccc292a794489359/original/img-2776.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57723602019-05-30T19:10:27-05:002019-05-31T08:00:13-05:00#13 When I was 17<p>Last week I wrote about a power outage during my big solo in “The Wizard Of Oz.” But what I didn’t tell you, was on that same fateful week, a fellow musical thespian and I also had a brush with stardom… </p>
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<p>I met my closest high school friend at a birthday party. A small group of us girls were hanging out in our pajamas, eating snacks, and talking about boys, when someone turned on the radio and “Wind Beneath My Wings” was playing. Another girl and I immediately and enthusiastically jumped up and burst into song. We had never talked much up until that point, but Bette Midler has a way of bonding even the unlikeliest of souls. Genevieve and I were instantly inseparable. Ours was a friendship built on outlandish handwritten skits, the worst of 90’s fashion, and eccentric original music. Everywhere we went we sang and it wasn’t long before we were writing our own songs and singing them for anyone who would give us a minute of their valuable teenage time. During the aforementioned production of “The Wizard Of Oz” we had a little break in our rehearsal schedule. Genevieve and I decided to take advantage of the magnificent acoustics in the high school gymnasium and try out one of our latest compositions. We each took a deep breath and started singing. I don’t want to brag, but it really was beautiful the way our harmonies wrapped around one another and filled the empty space with lush sound. You couldn't tell where my voice stopped and hers began. Everyone turned in our direction. The director of the play appeared completely enchanted. He sauntered up to us, wearing an expression of dumbfounded bliss and said, “You two are simply amazing and I want to manage you.” </p>
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<p>What followed was a dinner meeting with our families, where our new manager told us a tale of his acquisition of an antique photo, whose subject was two young girls- one blond and one brunette. He had been mesmerized by the photo upon seeing it initially, stating that it drew him in and that he just knew it was somehow metaphorical of things to come. Now, tearing up as he spoke, he saw it as nothing short of a miracle that Genevieve and I had auditioned for his play and had decided to sing our song in front of him. He surmised that my friend and I were symbolic of the girls in the photo. We signed a contract. And so began the recording sessions, the release of our CD, a regional tour of Genevieve and I singing karaoke style to our own recordings with choreographed dance moves, radio & television interviews, in-store <a contents="merch" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.hotpinkhangover.com/store">merch</a> signings, and photo shoots. We were only <a contents="17" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/X17Fvkpk1q4" target="_blank">17</a>. So essentially, the stakes were set pretty high right out of the gate with regards to my musical endeavors. That’s why it can be so frustrating to work as hard as we do in Hot Pink Hangover for what often ends up being a small trifle of satisfaction. There are little victories, yes, but I had it handed to me on a silver platter the first time around. Sadly, it usually isn’t that easy… As I’ve learned in every musical formation I’ve been in since. Be it a cover band, hip hop, Americana, country, pop, punk or avant garde- it's all a ton of work. Granted, Genevieve and I did work- but not as hard as our poor manager. He was selling off his original John Lennon drawings and sleeping in his car to ensure that we got to the next town. </p>
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<p>After a futile year attempting to transform Genevieve and I into starlets, our manager was financially and emotionally ruined. He had gone bankrupt, went through a divorce, had a heart attack, sold all of his valuables, lost his theater company and eventually died. He was a novice manager and he made mistakes, but he had a genuinely good heart. I still have the first check he ever sent me from CD sales we made to a record store. I kept it as a memento, as opposed to cashing it. Genevieve and I grew up and went our separate ways, but it was an experience that made a true impression on me for what is possible.</p>
<p>As musicians, we’re told to perform like there’s an influencer in the audience at all times. There may only be one person out in the crowd, but they also might be a record exec- so play like you mean it… And I do.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57614172019-05-20T19:04:00-05:002021-09-20T11:11:44-05:00#12 Lights Out<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/bcca0c755fdbc13abb6bc2491e192db8296ac84a/original/img-8656.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I was unpopular in high school. I never had the $100 Nike shoes or the colorful Trapper Keeper binders that my classmates proudly sported. And though my parents have always been scrappy and industrious, they were also poor. My mom <em>made</em> most of my clothing- which, in retrospect is awesome, but when you’re a teenager trying desperately to fit in, hand-made shirts with one’s name embroidered on the front is not going to win you any popularity contests. I tried to play sports like all the popular kids, but every game ended with me in tears and my team-mates disappointed at my lack of athletic prowess. So I stuck with the arts. I especially loved theater. I started the drama club at my school and wrote several plays that my friends and I rehearsed and performed solely for ourselves. So when an actual traveling theater company came to my school to put on their version of “The Wizard of Oz” I had to have a part. Of course, I thought I would make an excellent Dorothy, but for some reason the director thought otherwise, and I ended up playing the role of Auntie Em. Luckily for me, in this rendition of the production, Auntie Em had a solo, which was a suitable consolation. </p>
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<p>When opening night came, my parents were there in the audience, which always made me nervous. My dad was making stupid faces at me from his seat like he did at every school event. The production was going along seamlessly and before I knew it, it was time for my solo. I closed my eyes and proceeded to let my voice soar through the gymnasium. I was on autopilot. All of a sudden, at the height of my song, the power went out. Gone were the lights. My accompanying back tracks disappeared, and everything fell dark and silent… except for my voice. I hadn’t been given any preparatory information as to how to react in this situation, so I did the only thing I could think to do, which was keep singing. My solo carried through the vast darkness and when I was done, there was a roar of applause- which to this day is still my favorite sound! </p>
<p>That experience was a great primer for what was to come down the pike. It turns out that power outages are a common theme during my performances. I can remember playing a little venue in White Bear Lake with an old band of mine during a thunderstorm. We were cautiously working our way through the set, hoping not to get electrocuted but eventually lightening hit a nearby power line and the lights went out. Not wanting the vibe to suffer, I quickly grabbed my acoustic guitar, slung it over my shoulder, and went around to each candle lit table- serenading them with a rendition of “Me and Bobby McGee.” This has now become my go-to crisis plan. </p>
<p>O’Gara’s Pub, 2010. I was playing a show with G.B. Leighton to a packed house and by God if it didn’t happen again. Thankfully, I knew what to do. The reaction of the crowd is the same every time. Once they get over the initial shock of the situation, they smile and sing along and seem genuinely thrilled to have a little table-side concert in the dark. I still have people come up to me and say, “Hey! I remember you! You’re the girl who sang to us that time the power went out!” Yup. That was me. </p>
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<p>Two summers ago, Danny Rampage and I were back in my hometown and things came around full circle. We were playing an acoustic duo show in a small, protected area where the ferry boats launch. My dad was there in the audience, making faces at me. We were playing our final set when the weather took a turn for the worse. The wind picked up, the lights went out, and the poor sound guy was absolutely mortified. I calmly said, “Fear not, friend. This ain’t my first rodeo!” My dad, who never leaves home without a flashlight, shone it on us as we smiled and sang in the tiny spotlight it created. Everyone in the room felt like family that night. Over the years I’ve learned that a little power outage will never keep me down. I truly enjoy playing in the dark. However, on the flip side- if I’m out having a good time with friends and the <a contents="bartender" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://open.spotify.com/track/7BxQWe23ml7bi01wfJ8tet">bartender</a> turns the lights ON… well, then we have a problem.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57472692019-05-13T12:34:38-05:002019-05-22T10:15:32-05:00#11 Roadside Stands and Roller Shows<p>I’ve always had an entrepreneurial spirit. When I was 6, my dad set me up with a little flower shop on a corner of my grandparent’s yard, which happened to be right across the street from the hospital. The shop consisted of a rickety card table, a dozen empty beer bottles which my dad had consumed and my mom had replenished with freshly picked blooms, and a cash box. Dad told me that any money I made at the stand that day was mine to keep. The sun was out, the flowers attracted passing hospital visitors, and everyone marveled at the little gal slinging flowers all by herself! I kept up with my stand for the next few weekends, adding to my stash until I had enough money to buy a Lady Lovely Locks doll. For a first grader, this was really living! </p>
<p>Now that I had a grasp on the concept of small business operation, I decided I would aim a bit bigger. I was 9 years old by this point and feeling much older and wiser. We lived on a piece of property that had an abandoned pond in the back yard, which had been laid with cement and was the perfect place for me to practice my roller-skating tricks. Which I did every day until I could do backward crossovers, spins, and flips. In my mind, I had moves resembling an Olympic figure skater and I was just dying to perform for someone. But I didn’t want to do this alone. No, I wanted to put on a show! So I set out into the depths of the neighborhood, scouting prospective performers for my upcoming, “Roller Skating Show Spectacular!” I burned a mixed tape of all my favorite David Bowie songs, put together some fanciful costumes and began staging the performance. All the neighbor kids were really open-minded to let me choreograph their moves, dress them up in wildly colored headbands and matching stretch pants and then instruct them to glide around the cement slab to “Let’s Dance.” But they did it, and soon we had our show perfected. Next, I went door to door to every house in the neighborhood, delivering my handmade invitations, asking everyone around to attend the roller show. </p>
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<p>I remember how I felt the day of the performance. It was the same as I do now when I’m about to hit the stage for any big Hot Pink Hangover event that we’ve gone to painstaking efforts to pull off. My heart was racing in anticipation. I wanted all the music cues to be right, I wanted perfection out of my skaters and I wanted a full house! I had lined the rim of the “rink” with lawn chairs, had prepared a back-stage area to hide the performers and had even gone so far as to involve my little brothers, who stood in the wings, weighted down with refreshments to sell to the crowd. Then low and behold… people began to arrive. Once Bowie began blasting from my small, portable cassette player, we were on! Everyone remembered their moves! There was clapping, laughter and then, so quickly, it was over...</p>
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<p>After the show, I shook hands with all the audience members, congratulated the neighborhood kids on a job well done, and then slipped away to count my admission money. Granted, I was 9 and it was a backyard roller skating show, but it was a small success and one that has stuck with me. I knew that day without a doubt, I wanted to entertain. Nothing had ever given me a feeling like that. Later I would experiment with boys, and drugs, and yet the same holds true. Nothing compares to the high of a thrilling audience/performer synergy. For those of you who have been to one of our shows - or have put on a show of your own, I’m guessing you know what I’m talking about. </p>
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<p>I’m hoping to relive that glorious feeling on June 8th when Hot Pink Hangover releases the final CD in our “Wasted” trilogy. The new CD's will be hot off the press and we’ll be performing our entire catalog that night. We have rented out the Phoenix Theater, orchestrated the sound and lights, created new merchandise, planned some surprises for our audience and are now hoping for a full house. I have faith, that like that day so long ago, it will happen. And you will be part of it.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://hotpinkhangover.com/event/2696957/497124840/wasted-in-3d-release-party" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/c494baa6d2a328211a2478d50f80b871af7e82e8/original/img-3351.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57444762019-05-06T11:38:34-05:002021-12-23T13:50:38-06:00#10 What happens in Vegas...<p>It’s taken me a few days to sober up enough to write this blog, so please forgive its tardiness. </p>
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<p>We landed in Las Vegas after several hours of in-flight adult beverages, our faces sore from laughter. Attempting to collect ourselves and our luggage, we didn’t even notice the dapper gentleman in a suit and tie, standing at attention, waiting to greet us. He had an iPad pressed to his chest, displaying the words, “Hot Pink Hangover.” He warmly welcomed us to Vegas, led our motley crew to a silver, Cadillac stretch limo and popped a bottle of bubbly. Never has a band of misfits traveled in such style- drinking champagne, listening to the new unreleased Hot Pink Hangover EP, and gazing out the windows as we flew past The Strip and into Downtown Las Vegas. It was a long weekend of rooftop pools, speakeasy drinks and a few meals thrown in mostly for their sobering effects! We had 3 of the 4 band-mates, a couple of friends/fans and endless opportunities to binge out on any number of temptations. I won’t divulge too much in order to protect those in my party, and besides that, you know the old saying, “What happens in Vegas…” </p>
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<p>I always thought Las Vegas was one of those places where (because they sucker you into their stately casinos to toss all of your hard earned dollars at the roulette gods) everything else would be cheap… how wrong I was. The only thing that appeared to be cheap was the general clientele roaming the streets and establishments of old downtown. Over-consumption, waste, frivolity, and loss of dignity run rampant down every boulevard. But this was home for the next 3 nights, so we settled in and played along. Plus it’s kind of refreshing to visit a place where judgement is nonexistent and all inhibitions are tossed haphazardly into the dry, stagnant breeze! </p>
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<p>I wish I could say that I remember all the details of the trip… I do remember chasing some tasty apple gummies with a potent Old Fashioned and feeling really funny afterwards. I remember hearing 4 different cover bands play the same Tom Petty song, and I remember getting verbally assaulted by a linguistically creative homeless woman while walking down a side street we probably should have avoided. But the trip brought my band mates and I even closer. Sharing a hotel room will do that! We got comfortable passing gas in front of one another, we bore witness to the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transformation that tequila can bring out in some of us. And we stumbled down the strip, drinks in hand, laughing and sweating with the cast of characters that this desert oasis attracts. </p>
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<p>Now that we’re back to reality, it’s time to put things into high gear and prepare for the <a contents="June 8th CD&nbsp;release party." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.hotpinkhangover.com/shows">June 8th CD release party.</a> If there’s one Hot Pink Hangover show that you really should try to make it out for this year, this is the one! We’ve been working hard for over a year on the product, the performance and the experience so we really hope to see you there! There may even be a Vegas inspired song or two… </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/414e85552fcd3733759f9f13b28b29c76a453f4a/original/hph-w3d-cover-117.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57305342019-04-25T11:45:00-05:002021-04-03T18:41:19-05:00#9 I could have been a reality TV star...<p> “You should try out for <em>The Voice!</em>” suggested the friendly stranger… I know it’s meant to be a compliment, but instantly the nausea sets in and a halfhearted smile drifts across my face. You see, I’m still bitter about 15 years ago, when I auditioned for a television program called, <em>American Idol</em>. </p>
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<p>There weren’t a lot of opportunities to take the world by storm in my small, Wisconsin hometown in 2004. But a new reality TV show was taking girls like me and making their dreams come true almost overnight. People were glued to their televisions each week as they enthusiastically voted for their favorite singer- and their tragically compelling life stories. I wanted in on the action. My dad had written a check for $50 to cover travel expenses for myself and my chaperone, Laurel, and we were Minneapolis-bound for the Convention Center- the magical building where I would meet Ryan Seacrest. It was a 5 hour drive and we had made hotel reservations at the downtown Radisson. As Laurel pulled her car into the parking lot, a welcome wagon of beggars emerged from the shrubbery and approached our vehicle, imploring us for spare change. We got out of the car, trying not to make eye contact or to step on the many hypodermic needles littering the pavement. A few random condom wrappers had been carelessly flung here and there, adding to the charm. We ambled off to our room to begin preparations for tomorrow’s audition. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/30bc7c90b934fe43862fe3486851c106a0ca06a6/original/img-2788.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I started by laying my outfit onto the bed and was instantly disappointed with my choice. I’d selected a conservative blouse and capri pants- something I wouldn’t be caught dead performing in today. How could I have possibly thought this pitiful ensemble was the winning combo when I packed my bag?! I made Laurel bring me to a clothing store, and after agreeing that we would resort to eating from the vending machine, I cashed the $50 check from my dad and bought something much more provocative to wear. Next up was hair and makeup. As many of you know, I struggle with my natural hair so much that not only do I wear wigs for Hot Pink Hangover, but I wear them during my day-to-day quite often as well. Nothing gives me more confidence than a good wig- except maybe a good brow wax! If I had I been privy to this 15 years ago, I would have donned my most glamorous wig for those 20 seconds in the spotlight and I just might have been the next Carrie Underwood. Alas, I had Laurel to apply my makeup and do my hair, and bless her heart, but I looked like I should have been standing on a street corner doing sexual favors when she was done with me… We decided that for tomorrow, we would tone it down a bit. The final thing to consider was my song selection. I was torn between “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette and “Queen of Hearts” by Juice Newton. I had practiced both to exhaustion, but decided I would wait until I saw the judges and base my song choice on whether they looked like country fans or rock fans. Tomorrow was the big day, so we retired early and I dreamed of lounging on the deck of my private yacht after serenading a stadium full of roaring fans. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/67e7cd288f9f90b6796bca766feb7d23ef868521/original/s-people-party-dancing-music.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The alarm went off early. I did some breathing exercises to ward off a panic attack, grabbed a pop tart from the vending machine, and put on my scant new outfit. Laurel did her best with my hair and make-up, but in the end I decided that I was too uncomfortable and resorted to wearing my blouse and capris. I wiped off my make-up, and decided that I had to be authentic. I took a deep breath and we left the hotel. The line of people outside the Convention Center stretched for blocks. Even though The Radisson was right across the street, we had to walk half a mile to reach the end. Once inside the mezzanine, we were given a little card with our section number on it. Entering the clammy, brightly lit arena where 250,000 other participants were eagerly awaiting their auditions, I suddenly felt like a factory farmed head of livestock entering a slaughterhouse. And like livestock was indeed the way we were treated that day.</p>
<p>Having sat nervously in the wings for what seemed like an eternity with no Ryan Seacrest sightings, we were eventually marched cattle-style, 4 at a time, down to one of the 16 judges tables. 4 judges were seated at each. I was expecting tables full of swanky record execs and rock stars. Not so much. Think- cd store stock boys, no name musicians, and perhaps a late night radio DJ at best. After 8 hours of waiting for my turn, fatigued, hungry, and vengeful of everyone involved in this operation, I got up to the judges table and sang my heart out through a verse and chorus of “Queen of Hearts.” My judge, a scholarly looking, pint-sized fellow, looked me right in the eyes and said in a nasally voice, “I’m sorry, but you’re not what we’re looking for.” A security person cut the wrist band off my arm and led me to the nearest exit. The ironic part was that I did see someone make it through to the next round. They were dressed in a court jester’s outfit and sang a pitchy version of a Broadway show tune. The judges went wild. To each their own I guess. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/7f2b2434ad2d453cc84fe76f0c860a25a3d3b5e0/original/91081bfc-df69-4cfd-8b05-424a5c9a41b4.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>In hindsight I know that <em>American Idol</em> was all about the ratings. A handful of truly talented vocalists made it onto the show, but the biggest spectacle tended to get the golden ticket. I should have sang a power ballad, clad in a sequined unitard and thrust my tiny chest at the judges, seductively batting a pair of fake eyelashes in their direction. I wish I would have been that creative at the time. Laurel and I exited the Convention Center and went across the street to The Hard Rock Café. We ate cheese burgers and drank beer that we couldn’t afford. I called my dad and told him that I didn’t make it onto the show. There was a pause and then he said, “That’s okay, baby. You probably wouldn’t have liked playing by their rules anyway.” I told him I was sorry to disappoint everyone back home. Bayfield needed a rising starlet. “You’ve always been an idol to me.” he said.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57132332019-04-19T07:56:04-05:002019-04-19T12:14:57-05:00#8 The Origin Story of Hot Pink Hangover, Pt. 3 - Mercy Danger Adopts Lenny Renegade!<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/1a751c998290172a51a4fb92d6430ac0ee45f9c3/original/img-2777.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We always kind of knew in the back of our minds that Dr. Joey Caustic was playing bass with us because he liked us, not necessarily because he wanted to be the bassist in a band. We considered ourselves incredibly lucky to have him during our first year as a baby band and never took a day with him for granted. Joey’s energy on stage was infectious, the caliber of his musicianship was impressive, and the ideas he would bring to the table always made our band sound better and work harder. He’s also one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. So when the Doctor told us that he was going to be focusing on producing and stepping off the stage, the idea of replacing our beloved bassist was both an emotional blow and a daunting task. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/e5a7d73a1ef9faeb93ff397728e3a45146d88782/original/80-joey.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We didn’t really know HOW to find a new bass player, so we turned to Social Networking. This did generate some interviews and auditions, but searching for a new band member is a lot like online dating. You need to initially like their looks, then make sure that you’re compatible musically, politically, logistically, and interpersonally. The autonomy of the internet makes it easy to be flaky and many of our prospective players just ghosted us. </p>
<p>We had one applicant though, who stood out to Danny Rampage. “I just have a really good feeling about him” was what he said. Danny showed me a photo of this potential player and I was immediately turned off by what struck me as narcissism. Here was a tall, dark, and handsome guy wearing sunglasses and a cowboy hat, smirking as if to say, “My shit don’t stink.” There was no denying he had a great image, but I feared that he knew it and that he would be completely full of himself (a trait shared by many musicians). But I agreed that we should at least audition this guy. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/47d7b3e77a815cad9043640ad767d359a5ba4ace/original/img-3088.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>He showed up early with a 6-string bass and a sexy accent. I wanted to hate him, but he played as impressively as he looked. He had most of our catalog memorized already and he seemed to have just the right amount of professionalism and sass. We talked with him a bit and I had to admit, Danny Rampage was right - there WAS something special about this guy. In my excitement (and without consulting my band-mates) I enthusiastically declared during his audition, “Mauricio, you’re the one! I want you to be our bass player!” Now, we still had auditions with other applicants on the calendar, which put everyone involved in a rather awkward position. Listen! I didn’t want this talented fellow to take a bass playing gig with anyone else, so I felt like I needed to act quickly! I felt it was the right thing to do. Danny Rampage, of course, cleaned up my mess. </p>
<p>Our first gig with Mau- a.k.a. Lieutenant Lenny Renegade was at the Mystic Showroom. The stage was monstrous. I was shaking in my shoes with nerves, but Lenny came waltzing out, calm & collected and slayed his maiden performance with us. And he continues to. Plus there’s an added bonus! His wife, Mary Mayhem has stepped up to the plate and can be found slinging our merch, negotiating deals on our behalf and occasionally being my handler (when the need arises). The Hot Pink Hangover family is growing. We still do all of our recordings with Dr. Caustic in his studio but now we also have our bass player. I have to remember that sometimes change is necessary and it is good.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/5bc113053119f26ceb611a73c405abf5d3d171c0/original/img-0031.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57083162019-04-11T11:45:00-05:002019-05-21T15:57:43-05:00#7 The Origin Story of Hot Pink Hangover, Pt. 2 - Captain Hazard Recruits Sergeant Rampage<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/c5809457e9fb682e6269a5dfd851b12affe16df4/original/20190127-125201.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I’m always impressed with couples who have separate interests and are independently working on their own projects. The White Stripes, for example, were way more appealing to me when I thought that Jack and Meg were siblings, rather than a couple concealing their marriage. There’s something annoying about couples who do everything together. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/2738549662d30490fb4ab936993fa54bb40d40db/original/img-1110.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>So when Davey Hazard and I started Hot Pink Hangover, I was certainly not going to let my musician husband, DJ be in the band. Hot Pink Hangover was “my thing” not his, and I was really protective over my newly liberating musical project. I would play bass and sing, Davey would play guitar, and our current producer, Dr. Joey Caustic would drum. This power trio seemed like a good arrangement to me. DJ could watch from the audience and give me flowers and compliments after the show. </p>
<p>Despite my aforementioned “independence or bust” attitude, my husband and I were already playing duo gigs all over town. It was easy money and we had fun traveling around together, bonding over the music. One night, Davey Hazard decided to come and spy on us at our gig. He watched as we grinned at each other like a couple of love-sick saps, he listened to our harmonies, and he saw the chemistry that was undeniably there. He analyzed what he was witnessing in his complex Davey brain, and the next time we had a writing session, he asked me if it would be alright if my husband, DJ could join the band.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/ec27b403bccc909de07b72228d68adb9fb292b5f/original/img-0073.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>That question has been the most important one in Hot Pink Hanover’s history as far as I’m concerned, when I think of the contributions that DJ (a.k.a. Sgt. Danny Rampage) has made to our band and our business. You may not know this, but he is our accountant, our manager, our booking agent, our PR guy, our graphic designer, our spokesperson, and of course, our drummer. When we don’t know what to do, we look to him for the answer. I think about what we would have lost out on and where Hot Pink Hangover would be right now if I had said, “no.” Deep down I wanted him in the band anyway. He and I would likely have been jealous of one another’s independent musical escapades, and this way we get to experience them all together. Plus now I can protect him from any crazed fans who might be overwhelmed by his talent and good looks. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/576cd12e7d00b5cf5d44cb4eab1f2d0725c65ebe/original/img-3079.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Needless to say, DJ accepted his hot pink invitation and has embraced his position with unmatched gusto. He was christened with whiskey and given the new name, Sgt. Danny Rampage and we reconfigured our arrangement. I handed my bass to Dr. Caustic, he handed his drum sticks to Sgt. Rampage and we started over, toasting to the first of our new beginnings.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/4ac18e5a95d0143f1d98f9779fbbee3588ed8860/original/screen-shot-2019-04-10-at-5-39-17-pm.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/57066432019-04-04T12:43:53-05:002019-04-05T12:33:40-05:00#6 The Origin Story of Hot Pink Hangover, Pt. 1 - Captain Hazard Meets Mercy Danger<p>There’s this phrase, “We should jam sometime” that I have always been turned off by. In my personal experience, to "jam" has meant that two or more musicians with temporarily heightened egos, join forces on a song, each taking turns to out-play the others. When I think about the prospect of a jam session, a certain song comes to mind that goes, “Anything you can do, I can do better, I can do anything better than you.” Non-musicians, imagine for a minute that you’re getting together with one or more people to do an agreed upon thing, and the whole time, everyone involved in that thing is like, “Hey! Look what I can do! Look! Me!” It gets annoying. This is not a dis on people who love to jam, it just isn’t my bag. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/87abec919c32e1b2ac80252907d1e85588911a10/original/img-3061.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />As I’ve mentioned before, I’m an Americana singer/songwriter and have been performing solo for a number of years and doing just fine. I don’t generally play well with others and haven’t particularly wanted to… Enter Captain Davey Hazard, the man responsible for turning my acoustic little world upside down with his screaming amplifiers and distortion pedals. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f69f71972c3d00dbac87485b2e4f254277d46340/original/img-0106.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Davey and I are coworkers and I remember how I purposely ignored him for nearly a year- not even making eye contact when we would pass in the hall. I admit that I was just being anti-social and mean. One day though, we happened to be in the same place at the same time and the silence was starting to get uncomfortable. Davey innocently started talking about music. We both coincidentally were writing movie scores. We both played guitar. Guess what Davey said next? Yup. He uttered the dreaded phrase: “We should jam sometime” I scowled and declined. Davey is a persistent man when he sets his mind to something however and over time, I broke down and agreed to have a “jam session” with this tall, handsome stranger. We met in his mother’s basement and during a state of unexpected creative euphoria, we wrote “<a contents="Fragile 17" data-link-label="" data-link-type="track" href="/track/1329637/fragile-17" target="_blank">Fragile 17</a>” in about 20 minutes. I guess I CAN play well with others! What followed was a series of writing/jam sessions that resulted in a catalog of now 40 songs. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/67b37f1aafa87ea644495bcb3e305aaf5cd8bf19/original/5ad0ba92-a5f1-4092-87e0-905fce766003.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p>Even though these days I sing for a rock band, I still hold onto my acoustic roots and I always love a good old wooden instrument! I don’t know how you all feel about it, but I would rather listen to an <a contents="acoustic show" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bit.ly/2TO76fJ" target="_blank">acoustic show</a> than one where I need to insert earplugs any day, despite my bandmate’s affection for loud and hard. I really love when Hot Pink Hangover gets to play <a contents="acoustic shows" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bit.ly/2TO76fJ" target="_blank">acoustic shows</a>. And we have one coming up that I hope all of you will join us for. On 4/20 we’ll be unplugged in the Mission Room at the Hook & Ladder and we’re recording a full-length acoustic album in front of a small, live audience. We want you to be there as we make history together with YOUR banter and our songs. <a contents="Come see" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bit.ly/2TO76fJ" target="_blank">Come see</a> how far we’ve come since that afternoon in Davey Hazard’s mom’s basement. But let it be known, that if anyone else ever asks me to “jam” the answer is still no.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">[<a contents="get tickets" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bit.ly/2TO76fJ" target="_blank">get tickets</a> to the unplugged taping]</p>
<p><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://bit.ly/2TO76fJ" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/0578a281aded654cecb2e7e5c6451a3eb5e672f5/original/hph-hnl-ig-promoimage-01.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/56954672019-03-28T11:15:00-05:002019-03-28T11:15:15-05:00#5 Mercy's Revenge<p style="text-align: center;">I desperately need to vent about this band. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/773f84f46e4ba79f7614a072da60456c8eac5c93/original/img-1583.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>None of you know this, but a very important detail has been missing from nearly all of our music videos & promo photos. I think it’s necessary to let you in on my personal grievance. The guys don’t agree with me on this issue — they seem to think there are more important things to focus on within our videos. I say nay. It’s time for me to bring light to a glorious and overlooked nuance of Hot Pink Hangover… My shoes. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/06ad79b20ae6038532c952cfbcdef5d2a18f0d8c/original/img-8308.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When I was 14, I got my first job as a table busser. Sadly, what I found myself doing more often than clearing the tables, was shoving uneaten deep-fried breadsticks down my pants pockets to snack on later and checking to see if any drunken patrons had unknowingly dropped money under their chairs. At the end of a busy tourist season with little time for sitting down, I had money in the bank, greasy pockets and a bone spur on my left foot. This meant that I would either need foot surgery or I would need to deal with pain, which would be made worse by wearing any shoes with heels… a.k.a. All the cute ones. </p>
<p>I enjoy a challenge however, so I’ve tried to embrace my situation and shop for shoes that are comfortable on my spur, do not exceed my starving artist budget, and are visually striking. I’ve found a multitude of cute and affordable shoes out on my thrifting excursions (don’t judge). The unfortunate part is that my shoes never make it into our music videos! It’s actually become a running joke now to NOT include my feet during filming because the guys think it’s hilarious how worked up I get about this situation. They don’t seem to understand that I pride myself on the effort I’ve put into my footwear, despite my limitations. </p>
<p>Enter my #TuesdayShoesday Instagram series where I’m going to showcase all of the colorful kicks that never made it into the shot. Each week I’ll post a little montage of the featured shoes as well as the video or photo in which they were worn but never seen (<a contents="see it here" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bve7ACVla-Y/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet" target="_blank">see it here</a>). </p>
<p>I’ll have the last laugh here, boys.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(be sure to <a contents="follow" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/mercy_danger/" target="_blank">follow</a> @mercy_danger on instagram to see!) </p>
<p><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Bve7ACVla-Y/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/b036434e60aceb828a9a1181f944c1f6ade43a3c/original/img-3038.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/56884062019-03-21T18:20:00-05:002020-11-13T07:39:24-06:00#4 Shuttered Windows and Drunken Apologies<p>Why are so many live music venues closing their doors? <br>1) Because the miserable weather turned us all into hermits, and 2) Netflix, Hulu, and YouTube, yo…</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/acc6e40775c2afaee296845bca8d328e15612706/original/40293615-272882323330159-6349849610852237312-n.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>I’m watching “Breaking Bad” in its entirety for the second time because it was so much fun the first time witnessing Bryan Cranston transform from Ned Flanders into Pablo Escobar so seamlessly and convincingly over the course of 5 nail-biting seasons. “The Last Kingdom…” Don’t even get me started on that sexy German, Alexander Dreymon. His perfect face and heavenly abs fill my Instagram feed daily. In college, there was nothing I hated more than history class- but I’ll let Uhtred of Bebbanburg teach me anything. Never has learning about the attempted Danish conquest of England been so riveting. “Schitt’s Creek,” “Love,” and “Master of None” — done, done, and done… </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/29868ae859711ffcf770026b21a45c0bf30af7b1/original/hph-bartender-fb-mercy.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />How many concerts have I gone to this year? Well, let’s see… It’s March and other than the shows Hot Pink Hangover has played and had support acts for, none. I do plan to see Justin Leaf perform Tori Amos’ “Little Earthquakes” and Martin Sexton at the Ordway (but only because I have a gift certificate.) </p>
<p>It’s freaking hard to muster up the energy to go out, people! I’m an extreme introvert with social anxiety, and the way humanity as a whole tends to conduct itself is not something I tend to voluntarily subject myself to. Now, I know that other people’s gigs might be fun to go to and I might actually even make some new friends and learn some interesting stage tricks, but I’m picturing myself more like David Rose — an awkward disaster who, when drinking too much and feeling the pressure to perform socially, says whatever lewd thing comes to mind at the most inappropriate and exposing time possible. You see, in my heavy drinking days, the morning after a bender would always include me calling my bestie to find out who I needed to apologize to for whatever obscene things I had said and done in my jovial and uninhibited state of inebriation. Eventually, I grew up and just stopped going out. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/system/c82a2bc940d939b480d22a51e9b42a2f58a2a19f/original/live-7.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I know how hard it is to get out and do things. Therefore, I have a humongous appreciation for all of the folks who consistently (despite my constant doubt that anyone will be in attendance) continue to show up at our gigs and support us. With so many “easier” options out there, it is astonishing to me that people choose to leave the comfort of their homes and their black mirrors to come and sing our songs, buy our shirts and request that their pictures be taken with us. I don’t deserve it. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/83c99fd918ff96533a8a149970cf6842b7a6443f/original/45123572-10112728166229780-7504998253570555904-n.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />So I am vowing that from this day forward, I WILL go out to see more shows! I will interact with more people and I will limit my screen time. I’m going to miss my darling Uhtred, but I think it will be worth it. Instead of watching history on Hulu I’ll be making it in real life, with real people. What a concept! </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/56801192019-03-14T12:15:00-05:002020-08-12T11:33:18-05:00#3 Mercy Danger Begins<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/f96832448842a578b7d32628556bd7a94774ba2b/original/sm-hero-flat.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(Sasha Mercedes - Angsty Folk Gal)</p>
<p>It’s easy to plant a seed. It’s the roots that require patience. </p>
<p> <br>In 2008 I ran away from everything to have a whirlwind romance with a dark and brooding Macedonian singer/songwriter. I’ve always been a sucker for accents and a good Musaka. Two years later, I was back in my hometown of Bayfield, WI working as a waitress and was enjoying family, friends, and the big lake, knowing that soon I would be relocating again. I had enrolled at an interior design school in Madison, WI and was all set to move in with my long-time friend and fellow musician, Peter. I was pretty certain that I had my shit figured out. We were going to start up another avant-garde band and I was going to take the design world by storm! </p>
<p>Just weeks before the big move I was playing a gig with some pals from Stevens Point when a distinguished, older fellow approached me to tell me that he was a music producer and I was the voice and the vision he had been waiting all his life for. Now, in hindsight, that declaration should have raised some red flags, but as musicians, we sometimes let thoughts of success cloud our better judgment. We want so badly for people to appreciate our craft, that with the slightest encouragement, we can almost smell the exhaust from the stretch limos and taste the champagne and caviar. This dapper man wanted me to come and record an album of my songs with him in Minneapolis. He had musicians at his disposal, a proper studio and lots of influential friends who were dying to hear my songs. He had a private wing of his mansion prepared and waiting for the artist he had finally found. What could I do? </p>
<p>I bit. </p>
<p>Now, I won’t go into the drama which ensued from that one decision, but I will say that it led me here. It led me to meet my husband and ultimately my current bandmates. Pain and persistence led to some really amazing changes. One of which was discovering my alter ego- Mercy Danger. <br>2019 has me trying to find success as the frontwoman of a rock band. It feels strange because I was always the little Americana singer, toting my acoustic guitar to every backyard BBQ and hippie festival- but it also feels right. Hot Pink Hangover is just starting to spread our wings, and despite the fact that it is a painfully slow and grueling process to try to be successful as an artist- I can feel the roots taking hold and want to nurture this project. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/9b8bec0c44caaca0242a2828d12b2f61aa62c71a/original/img-8656.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(Mercy Danger - Whimsical Rock Badass)</p>
<p>How many times in your own life have you just hit “reset”? Uprooting everything for a whim, a tragedy, a partner, or a dream? The detriments and delights of your decisions are part of the narrative that you will share with those who come into your life and want to know about the path you’ve led that has brought you to where you are. So tell them about your scattered seeds and your personal comedy of errors (we all have them). Only by experiencing what you know you DON’T want, can you really appreciate the wonderful people and things that are worth investing in. </p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/56714602019-03-07T07:35:00-06:002020-06-30T09:30:06-05:00#2 Tickled Pink With Gratitude<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/8601aa67645d68e4c33b095580cc0a7b0aad359b/original/hphdg1.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I drive the Crosstown, connecting the east and west metro of the Twin Cities twice a day during rush hour. Something about that stretch of highway seems to bring out the inner prick in all of us. I expect to be cut off, nearly side-swiped, aggressively tailgated and simultaneously flipped off every day. I’ve found that after a trip on the Crosstown I’m usually either in tears or having to dig deep for those breathing exercises I learned in Eastern Religion class. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/17fbc4296c55614e359bdce366a0e364fe717e95/original/hotties.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Maybe we hearty Minnesotans are forming a bond this year due to the worst winter most of us have ever encountered, but lately, the pure selflessness of others is really bolstering a latent positive feeling towards people. Okay, some of this has been through material things like the shiny, hot pink stretch pants and jewelry I received from some wonderful fans (we like to call them "<a contents="Hotties" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/1573239532783570/" target="_blank">Hotties</a>"), but most of it has been through people’s actions. Like having a friend, without a moment’s hesitation, offer to jumpstart my car after our release party because we were experiencing more sub-arctic temperatures and my battery has been barely clinging to life for months. And then, another friend offering to remove my nearly dead battery, drive me to the auto parts store to get a new one, and change it out for me… on a freezing-ass day! Now that’s kindness. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/8d201bdb2953cb9fd092c237cdebf3bfe5a9ca60/original/stretchy-pants.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Our single release party was a fine example of folks happily co-existing in a local Northeast dive bar to bond over the glorious consumption of food, drink, and music. Watching all the musicians on stage interacting with the audience and with one another in such a light-hearted and genuine way was really what we need more of in our day-to-day. The silent smiles tossed to one another that said: “We got this.” and “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight.” An unspoken, yet pretty damn important thing was happening in that back room. We were basically a family. Each of us dysfunctional -- but together, untouchable. </p>
<p>[<a contents="1 second of Deathgrip" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.facebook.com/hotpinkhangover/videos/642271549544077/" target="_blank">1 second of Deathgrip</a>]</p>
<p>So, I ask: “Why can’t all of humanity just be sitting at a time-tattered, beer-stained table, enjoying a pile of meat (or tots), some original live music, and the companionship of a few kindred spirits? If this were the way of the world, I bet folks would be more inspired to bring their neighbors a carrot cake or shovel each other's walkways — as opposed to meeting that same neighbor on the Crosstown Monday morning… and with an evil grin, nearly run them off the road.</p>Hot Pink Hangovertag:hotpinkhangover.com,2005:Post/56622282019-02-28T20:16:12-06:002022-04-19T14:27:39-05:00#1 For the Love of God, STOP SNOWING!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://hotpinkhangover.com/product/299843" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/233050/c474264892d094ea94b931387d94c3ed0696b1a3/original/blog.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(click the pic to buy one of these rad beanies)</p>
<p>I have a skylight in my bathroom. I was peeing this morning and I heard the slaps against the glass above, mocking me... It was more fucking snow. </p>
<p>Feb 2019 has set the record for the snowiest month in the Twin Cities, if not the entire state. My response to this horrifying accolade has been to ingest a cocktail of supposed anti-depression vitamins... yes, vitamins- because I’m too lazy to find a shrink in my network and I’m too cheap to pay the deductible anyway. So, every morning begins with St Johns Wort, Vitamin D, Valium… (okay that’s not exactly a vitamin, but it sure takes the edge off) and coffee washed down in the darkness with disappointment & regret that I’m still here (in this state… not here in general.) </p>
<p>Between <a contents="Sarge's broken bones " data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.instagram.com/s/aGlnaGxpZ2h0OjE4MDI0NjA4OTUwMDczMDA2/?utm_source=ig_story_highlights_share&igshid=1n8k6haeoarsb" target="_blank">Sarge's broken bones </a>from slipping on the ice to having to find street parking amidst the constant snow removal parking policies in between polar vortices, it has been difficult to remember the patio days of yore. I don’t remember what a nice Hefeweizen guzzled in the sun even feels like anymore. February is the shortest month, yet this has felt like an eternal sentence in Nibelheim. </p>
<p>One would think that songs would be pouring out of me — what with my disenchanted and melancholy view on life at present — but alas… dry as my sense of humor. My bandmates have been very supportive and kind to me despite my constant state of disgruntlement but I think a move is going to be necessary to cope. Nashville is sounding pretty tempting these days. I would be an old dog in a pool of cute little crooning puppies, but at least I could dig a big hole with my snow shovel and pile in my coat, my boots, and my Valium. </p>Hot Pink Hangover