A.V. Club: Ferris Wheel Confessions

But seriously.

I’ve spent the last year changing zip codes and time zones every few months, and, while it’s been something of an adventure, it’s nice to have roots somewhere. Atlanta, for all intents and purposes, is that place. Sure, all of my stuff is tossed in haphazardly labeled boxes or strewn in loosely tied dry cleaning bags, and my father has converted my bedroom into his walk-in closet, but it’s the only place I’ve lived in for any substantial period of time. Plus, there’s this real fun (and real, real hairy) guy who likes to bury his head into the couch beside me – and he likes to snuggle, though sometime I hope he’ll return the head rubs – and there are some of the normal creature comforts.

But, as all of you are surely aware, I just finished a three-month tenure in San Francisco, Calif., that bounty of wealth, fog and endless shorelines. In three plus years in Chicago, I found a true sense of home; granted, I had the built-in social networks afforded by being enrolled in a university, but Chicago was, too, a city I could master (and one I cannot wait to return to, but that bucket list is forthcoming). San Francisco was slower to warm to; I fell instantly in love with the city and its gorgeous views, with the rolling hills and the truly stellar burritos, but I didn’t quite learn to call it home. My love affair was brief, if only because I am not yet in the professional and/or emotional position to be a true San Franciscan. It’s, I’ve found, a late-20s and beyond sort of town, whose inhabitants need flexible incomes to be young and in love. I was a poor, if incredibly happy, editorial intern. My time there was reformative, giving me the strength and drive to write again, rebuilding my self-confidence and sculpting my calves (you should seriously see these things; they’re basically registered weapons), but it wasn’t home.

Nevertheless, I left with a cavalcade of exceptional memories; I can’t begin to chronicle them here, but I’m sure you’ll read them woven into future essays. For now, I’ll leave you with a couple of the ones caught on tape.

In October, I won a pair of Treasure Island Music Festival weekend passes from the Bay Bridged by submitting a reworked version of “Patch Adams” starring The Hold Steady. The festival was incredible and gave me glimpses into sets from The Hold Steady, Death Cab, The Head and the Heart, Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks and The Naked and Famous, among so, so many more. But the crowning, uh, achievement, I guess, of the weekend was landing a role in the Ferris Wheel Confessions, brought to the festival jointly by the Bay Bridged and Audyssey. Basically, if you agree to participate, and if you’re one of the few who sign up immediately, you get a free ride on the 60-foot Ferris Wheel; during your ten or so minute ride, you’re asked a handful of questions about your musical proclivities (the more embarrassing, the better), and they capture your responses on film. Post-festival, they mash together all the best moments and release two videos, a teaser and a longer form. Not to brag or whatevs, but I’m featured pretty prominently in both, embedded below. Look out for the girl with the bright, neon yellow hoodie, with hair all tousled (sex-ay) and glasses askew. Gents, the line starts here.

Ferris Wheel Confessions, The Teaser:

Ferris Wheel Confession, The Extended Edition:

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