Tag Archives: parties

Explanations and ‘The House of God’


So there I was, living in a party house in St Paul that got more and more popular by the day. I was receiving Facebook messages from friends of friends of friends asking if they could attend one of my parties. Finally, the hopes and dreams of fifteen year-old Telea had been accomplished. I was the host and resident of one of the most popular party houses in the Twin Cities, and I was gaining rapport by hour.

Now, time for an explanation:

When I initially became homeless on June 2nd, I had a cute, short,  train-hopping girlfriend who I had last seen about a week and a half before I was kicked out. As soon as I got kicked out, I asked her if she would come back to the Twin Cities to take me train hopping. Her response was awesome, to say the least. She got so incredibly excited, and promised to be back by the start of July.

So, my stay at Diablo’s house was, indeed, just supposed to be a very short while. We initially settled on three weeks, but when my girlfriend kept getting delayed, it became an open-ended departure from the house. Basically: “Stay as long as you want, don’t break much, and throw good parties.”

I was pretty sure I could handle that. In our first 30 days of solid parties, we threw FOUR big parties, (and 26 parties of varying sizes), once every weekend up to the weekend of July 6th. The first one was a spur-of-the-moment decision that just so happened to work out well. The second was scheduled over Pride Weekend, the third was basically a Pride Afterparty (as in ‘The-Weekend-After-Pride-Party) and the fourth was a party celebrating 30 days of Partying.

On Pride weekend, my friends Alice and Xaundra went with me to the festival before the big party showdown. On our way to Loring Park, we ran into a handsome Dirty Kid sitting shirtless on Nicollet Ave, playing a banjo. We decided to say hello, and found out his name was Joe and that he was working in Wisconsin on an organic farm for the summer. He told us he usually rubber tramped it around the country in a big old van. We parted ways, hoping to see him again at Pride.

The second we walked into the park, it started pouring rain. Just a violent downpour that soaked us to the bone in 0.5 seconds. We took cover under the nearest tree, and so did our dirty friend Joe. He noticed that I had a Ukulele, and I played him a song. After a couple more minutes, Xaundra and Alice decided to go back to the house early instead of braving the rain, and we promptly invited Joe to come to the party, giving him two phone numbers to contact should he decide to make an appearance. Spoiler alert: he did (which is why that story was important at all).

Alice and Xaundra headed home, taking my Ukulele with them, and I continued through the pouring rain of Pride to meet some cute people and hang out. Within fifteen minutes, the rain had subsided, and while the park was soaked (and partially flooded), the sun AND the people came back out to celebrate.

Joe (later renamed James Franco to avoid confusion with the fifty thousand other Joe’s I know – and because he resembled a young, dirty James Franco) was not the only one who got adopted by the house from Pride. With the weather putting a damper on Pride Weekend, our party got bumped to five pm instead of ten pm. At five pm, I was arriving at the house with about five people I knew and thirty people I had found at Pride.

This party was one that went down in the history of the house. Over two hundred people showed up. There was glitter, laughter, and alcohol EVERYWHERE. It was the party where I discovered that my Ukulele had been left at a bus stop in pouring rain confusion. It was the party where everyone came together in a community like one we hadn’t seen before. It was the first party I stayed totally sober for because of the overwhelming number of people showing up, marking the weekend before as the last party I got drunk at – for the rest of the summer. But most importantly of all, this was the party that gave our house its name.

The House of God.

Explanation time:

At previous slightly-rowdy parties, we told party-goers that when they went outside to smoke a cigarette, they should always yell ‘Glory Hallelujah’ or ‘Amen’ so that the neighbors wouldn’t suspect a party. Rather, they would think it was a rowdy religious gathering. This joke, thought up because we lived across the street from a church and a sober house, ended up giving our house its name that night.

Furthermore, the previous weekend, someone had spray-painted ‘House of Gold’ right over our doorway.

The kind people at the church, Kandra and Rob, a beautiful couple who were planning to get married that October, LOVED us. Rob was the pastor of the church, and Kandra was the super-sweet, wonderful Fiance. Diablo and I made a habit of visiting the church for the good company and the good acoustics (and the semi-exclusive ‘Breakfast in the Basement’ every Tuesday morning – House of God and Church only). They walked into the party FEARLESSLY while it was in full swing to bring all of the party-goers bread, hummus, fresh fruits and veggies, and a huge bowl of delicious pasta salad.

A drunken person, hearing about this, exclaimed that it really WAS a house of god, having not seen that extra letter ‘L’ in the tag job. It was perfect. With sharpies in hand, we promptly fixed what we later called ‘the biggest spelling error of the month’ and named our house ‘House of God’, later to be fondly referred to as the ‘HoG’.

What was even more amazing was that Church (previously known as Kandra and Rob) loved the name. They saw us as a form of missionaries. We were giving all we had to the people, letting people crash at our house, and providing a safe spot for people to be any hour of the day, any day of the week. Regardless of the fact that we allowed alcohol, drugs, and sex to happen in the house on a regular basis, we were thought of by Church as true followers of the lord. They claimed Jesus would be proud to walk with us, and promptly started referring to our house as the House of God to anyone who brought us up.

We were a growing fashion statement. Weekdays were filled with people asking to come over, cigarettes and beer being bought for us as tributes, and plenty of memories. Weekends were even crazier, with people streaming into the house by nine pm for festivities, live music being played, and suddenly being hailed as ‘The Party Gods’.  Waiting for my girlfriend to take me on the road was becoming more and more fun, which, later, left me more and more screwed.

The First Stroke of Luck


On June 6th, 2014, I found myself heading to a party being thrown by my best friend and her boyfriend at the time. It was explained to me that Diablo (the name I lovingly gave to Alice’s boyfriend) was renting a house in St. Paul, MN for 300 dollars a month and that his cousin owned it. I thought that was incredible and, while I had visited the house before some time during the previous winter, I was more intrigued the night that I showed up for a party rather than a breakdown.

A party it was. This nerdy little man had managed to pull together a pretty decent crowd of people and a pretty decent supply of alcohol. I did happen to get very drunk and kiss a very pretty boy quite a few times and then pass out at 5 am on the carpet upstairs.

This was my first night at a house I would end up living in for two and a half months. A strange, free blessing that ended my homelessness just a few days after it began. Diablo and I set up an immediate agreement; I was leaving soon, so I could stay for free and I would throw parties. That was literally my rent. Throwing parties.

That Sunday, I adopted a dog. Irresponsible as it seemed at the time, I figured if I wasn’t paying for rent or food or literally anything, I could probably afford to take care of a dog. After all, I was living in a three bedroom house with a fully fenced-in yard that my dog could frolic in.

When she arrived at the house, her name was Izzy. Her fur was falling out, she was peeing nervously, and she was too skinny. At ten months old, this poor little black lab/husky/wolf mix had already been shown a life of fear and starvation. The couple dropped the dog off with me, warning “She’s not trained at all. She poops in the house. She won’t eat. She’s scared of water. She’s aggressive toward children.

A week later, her name was Trax. She was eating regularly, she adored me, she had learned a handful of commands, and she only pooped in the house when I left her alone and she freaked out. I had a rescue who was ready for a new life. She put most of her fears behind her and began developing into an awesome dog. I fell in love.

As awesome as she was, she still had lab puppy in her, and every time the fence was left open, she would bolt for it, exploring the world and not coming back (we’re still working on this little problem). This was especially a problem, since every single day since I had arrived at the house was a party.

At a party, someone is bound to leave the gate open, carelessly or drunkenly or unknowingly. It became tradition for a set of volunteers to run into the streets barefoot, drunk, or tripping to find my dog and bring her back.

A week of straight partying turned to two weeks of partying, and Diablo and I began to wonder…Can we do it? Can we pull off an entire month straight of parties? Can we influence the people to keep coming over, every night, for thirty whole days?

Spoiler alert. We did. July fourth was looking like the end of things. At nine pm I was sitting on the roof of the house with my dog and my ukulele, watching the first fireworks. By 10:30 pm, three people were there. By 11, there were eight. Eight people and a load of booze and a few musical instruments = party.

It was the slowest night at the house that existed. It was also one of the best. Kissing cute girls on the roof, serenading new friends, topless hula-hooping. It was a crazy night for the small number of people who arrived, and it was a magical one. At four am, I puked, and it was time to turn in….

For an hour. I returned to the party in full glory for about forty-five minutes. It was a weak-at-best attempt at the ‘Ralph-n-Rally’, a pro move in party culture in which the puker remains the partier.

It was a lucky time, and one I will elaborate more on in my next blog post, which will be cleverly titled and witty all the way through…maybe.

The Park Gathering and the Constant 90’s Vibes


Last night I just wanted to have fun. To go out with my friends. So, much like Simple Plan, I did something about it. I did not, however, steal a car and crash it. What I did do was message my friend Isley (the actual love of my life) and tell her we should make like 90’s kids and hang around in the park after dark.

Which is exactly what we did. The street lamps flickered over the old park equipment and water fountains. From the distance, someone could be heard strumming a guitar as dogs barked. A group of five people sat in the sand of the playground, thinking they were a really great punk rock band but really just being a group of people who were getting eaten by mosquitos.

Of course, everyone was cute. How can you be a 90’s TV Show Protagonist Group without being hella cute? We sat on the swings, we made music with a guitar, a ukulele, and a harmonica, and we talked about things that probably won’t be relevant at all by 2020. 

We stayed out until two in the morning and then walked home. Isley and I both got home safely on our block, but barely for Isley, who got to her house just in time to see someone get jumped right by her. I feel lucky she’s alright and that our hugs last for a long time, otherwise she wouldn’t be.

Overall, it was a beautiful night with a small group of lovely people that I feel so blessed to have as friends. And we all live in the 90’s despite it being 2014.

Today is a day of goodbyes. I am packing up my room and washing clothes in preparation for the official move-out on Sunday. I have two nights left here. How insane is that? This month has been so topsy-turvy up and down that I don’t even know what to think. In one month, I got to say hello and goodbye to my first house away from my parents, to the garden I planted, to the people on my block.

I kiss goodbye to my old blanket, which is finally seeing the end of its days after at least six years of keeping me warm. Covered in sharpie and holes, she doesn’t do her job anymore, and she smells like bum sweat, but I will miss her. I say goodbye to my books and my futon, to my fedora collection and most of my shoes. I say goodbye for now to my art, my letters of accomplishment, and my fish.

Yes, my friends, it will be a bittersweet weekend indeed, but I take solace in the fact that I tried my hardest and sometimes your hardest just isn’t good enough. Onward I move to dirtier and grungier things…but you’ll get the whole speech when its truly time.

For now, I must continue throwing the material objects of my life away. As always, I wish all of you the very best.

The Sore Throat and Other Post-Weekend Misfortunes


Well, it was a good weekend. I spent a large amount of time not sleeping, eating delicious food, playing volleyball, campfiring, and talking philosophy with people. It was awesome and I wish I felt as awesome as the weekend was, because that way I wouldn’t be fevering like a little girl.

I got a message from the mother of the children my mom babysits saying that both of her children came down with strep and that she was sorry if anyone else caught it. I think I may have caught it. I have a temp of 100.2 (up from 96.1) and I have a throat that is more sore than the effects of a punch to the face and more swollen than a bee-sting on someone with allergies.

It’s not a good time so I’m keeping this short so I can go back to watching movies and napping, which is the dream life anyway. But yeah, everything this weekend was great. I’m sore from so much volleyball, muddy from the rains, and emotionally exhausted from all of the love and energy I was putting into the air. Everything will be better in a couple of days when I recover.

I think one of the best parts of the weekend was Saturday night, because I met a guy named David and we stayed up all night talking. It was really fun and when he had to leave, we hugged it out and he is an excellent hugger which automatically means we’re friends.

I guess I don’t have the energy to say much more so I’ll just say that I hope all of you had an excellent weekend and that you feel better today than I do.

Love ya!

Have I Used ‘The Party Weekend’ as a Blog Title Yet?


Because that’s what this is going to be. I’ve discussed the Frog party many times before and the moment is finally upon us to actually have it, starting tomorrow! Well, first I have to go to work in the Pumpkin Fields and then I have to shower like I haven’t showed in a month (when in reality, I simply haven’t washed my hair in a week).

I’m pretty excited but also down about it. I’m excited because it’s always a pretty decent time and good people always show up and there’s volleyball and food and hanging out. But I’m down because a few of the people that I had really hoped would show up are not, in fact, going to make it.

Mind you, I’m not trying to complain your ears off or make a big deal of it, I just get sad when people I have formed attachments to are also the people I never ever get to see (Ahem, separate note, same tune, LEXI). It’s a problem because I just go for the major lovefest and then they live far away and I can’t spend even half as much time with them as I hope.

In other news, the other night I had a dream about Seth Green and now, apparently, I am convinced that he is my best friend. I occasionally think ‘Oh, I should text Seth’. And then I realize that not only am I not friends with him, I have also never met him or even been within one hundred yards of him. So there’s that.

My dreams are imprinting upon my reality and my friends live far away; go cry about it. I get the drift. My blog is shit and I probably don’t have real friends but the fact is that run on sentences are fun and as long as I’m deluded enough to think I have friends well then life is dandy.

My favorite part, though, is that I spent so much time trying to make this a quality blog and I just kind of ruin it by posting anything. So there’s that. I’m tired and distracted but I have two jobs and life is better than I am willing to admit to my parents.

Love ya!

The Faulty Alarm


Today is a beautiful day and I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t talk about Valentine’s Day yesterday and I suppose you’re expecting a story but there isn’t one. I just didn’t. Today is a very short post because I have a jumpsuit to wash, a body to shower, and a party to go to.

Oh, don’t get all up in arms, government. When Telea says party, she doesn’t mean drugs, alcohol and men that are only attractive when you do drugs and alcohol. Telea is talking about something far more legal and far weirder. 

Today, I’m going to the birthday party of my friend Alex, who turned 21 yesterday. Awhh, Valentine’s baby! The plan is that we shall all rendezvous at Alexa’s house for cross-dressing (Me a male train conductor, Alex a something female, dunno about Alexa) and then we shall road trip right on over 10 miles away to the party location where we shall sip tea and watch musicals.

WHAT?! That’s a thing?

Yes, my dear friends, much as getting together with your buddies for pizza, sex, porn, drugs, and video games sounds like a smashing (and I mean that very literally) good time, I would rather kick it with 3-4 people, drinking Earl Grey and singing every single number in Chicago in a loud chorus of off-pitch voices until our energy is gone.

Now, let’s talk about the alarm clock that couldn’t. Last night (Or, I mean, at 5:30 am), I set an alarm for 10:45 so that I could get up and get around to shower up and cross-dress. WELP, guess what alarm didn’t go off until noon? THIS ONE. 

So here I am, wasting time posting a blog when I should be getting my stink off and suiting up. So I should go. Today shall be a great day, my friends. A great day, indeed.

Love ya!

Perfection in 72 Hours and Calvin and Hobbes Bro References


Have you ever had one of those weekends that you really just can’t complain about at all? Honestly, everything just kinda falls into place right at the perfect time, and all that jazz? 

That’s kind of exactly what happened with my weekend, no lies.

Friday started off slow, getting the farm ready for people to come chill, making sure my tent was clean, all that jazz. People started showing up at around 6, and so we started a bonfire and began the chillfest. Now, I have to inform you that the mass number of people who showed up this weekend were actually my older brother’s college bros.

This happens to be a really really good thing. First of all, they’re fun to chill with, and it’s amusing to watch them get drunk. Secondly, Telea Dodge is such an awesome dudette that she has actually secured a place as an official bro. Yes, Telea has been crowned with the Bromanship award and is currently rejoicing.

Second of all, one of them happens to be my second favorite person in the entire world, and we’ve been bros since before anyone else let me be a bro. That’s kind of really legit. His name is Calvin, so we go ahead and say we’re Calvin and Hobbes, because fuck yes I’m an imaginary tiger.

So, there I was, chilling out with a ton of college dudes for three whole days, with a small mix of best friends and family members tucked in there, just laying back and enjoying life. There was Volleyball, sunshine, a bonfire, and several ridiculously awesome Broments, in case you were wondering.

On Saturday we did a mad set list and danced the night away to some live Dubstep. I know you’re jealous.

I don’t really have time to explain the rest, but a more descriptive post might go up in the future.

Love ya!