Archive for April, 2010

Set My Heart Aflutter: Bryce and Me After the Show... Confetti Hearts and Speech Bubbles from Splashup Light

I used to be a teenybopper, with my subscription to J-14 and posters of Blink-182 and Good Charlotte plastering my bedroom walls.  I remember meeting Pierre from Simple Plan and getting a little starstruck; and standing two feet from Mike Dirnt of Green Day, getting so flustered I couldn’t speak, so I just stared at him like a rabid squirrel eyeing  an acorn. Yes, I was that kid at the show- sitting with my parents, rocking my $20 concert t-shirt, screaming my eternal love for Benji Madden. But I am happy to say that I’ve outgrown it. I am almost a college graduate, I’m taking courses toward my MBA; I am a mature adult.  

Or so I thought. But then there is always something to remind me of the fanatic teenager I once was. And his name is Bryce Avary. The sole artist behind The Rocket Summer, there is something about him that makes me revert into a mild version of my teenybopper-self.  

I went to one of his shows last week with my roommate Angelina (see: 2007) . We got there early and decided to walk around rather than wait in line outside the venue. And that’s when I looked up and there he was. I kid you not, my heart stopped mid-beat (which, I’ll let you know, is actually quite painful). He smiled, I tried to be cool with a head nod (yes, I know, I’m lame), and we walked on in opposite directions.  

It was an amazing show, but I won’t get into too many details about how Ang and I were two of maybe a half-dozen people over the age of 21 (judging from the lack of wristbands in the audience) or how I still dance like a fifteen year old boy… Yes, no, we don’t need to get into that.  

Waiting outside after the show, I looked around and knew that I was significantly older than at least a few of the other kids waiting. I know this mostly because of the fact that there was a handful of parents waiting with them.   

He came out the front doors of the venue and made his rounds, taking pictures, and signing autographs. Angelina and I let the high school girls go ahead of us, figuring on the one hand that they’re parents were waiting to take them on and on the other that they might explode if they waited any longer. He got to us and we talked about the show, about his cover of The Beatles’ song Blackbird, about how he should play metal fest after covering Pantera during the show. We snapped a photo, and went on our way. And as we walked away, I looked back and he looked up, I smiled and told Ang we had to walk faster. She looked at me funny, and as we rounded the corner I let out a minor laugh of hysteria.  

We got to the car and my eyes started to well up. Angelina looked at me and started to cry. Yes, that’s right. Crying. Over meeting an artist I’ve already met a handful of times. But the teenybopper inside me couldn’t hold it in any longer.  

And as I Splashup my own fan photo with Bryce, I know I am equivocal to those 14-year-old girls screaming girls. And I think I’m okay with it.  

I can’t feel too bad about my little outburst. After hearing about how much older women (and occasionally men) react to Adam Lambert  or Taylor Lautner , I don’t think I’m that bad afterall.


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The Nothing Fight

SLJ and Me

My roommate SLJ and I had a dumb conversation today and a dumber fight tonight. We were talking about how this was kind of the end. Not of our friendship, but at least of us being roommates and being together for almost 24 hours a day. For the first time in a long time, we’re going to be apart. For almost 15 years, we’ve never gone more than 2 months without seeing one another (I worked at a summer camp). Even then I’d write and she’d write back. But starting this summer, I’ll be staying around school and she’ll be moving back home. She mentioned how we’re not going to see each other as much anymore, and being the mature adult that I am, I expressed my feelings about this in the best way I know how: I told her to shut up. I made a joke afterward, about how we were never friends and I hated her. She said she’d miss me too. 

But tonight we got into a bit of an actual argument. She’ll say she wasn’t arguing, but it’s all the same. So here we are, in the middle of an actual stupid fight over nothing, and I am realizing more and more that maybe the dumb fight has less to do with what we think it does and more to do with the fact that it is getting closer and closer to the end. It’s easier to leave someone when you hate them than when you love them. 

But maybe that’s just me.

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She-Hulk! from superherotimes.com

I’m telling you this story in full confidence that you will not tell anyone else (and yes, in posting this to the internet, I know I am telling anyone). As graduation approaches, preceded by a plethora of pre-commencement events and ceremonies, I found that I was in need of a serious shopping spree. Specifically, I needed dresses… and a lot of them. After going to four department stores with limited luck (I bought one overpriced sleeveless party dress that’s going to take a little more than a lot of double-sided sticky skin tape to keep up..if you’ve never used skin tape, you cannot even imagine how unpleasant the task of applying and, even more so, removing , the tape is), I decided to venture outside the comfort zone.

So in my time of dress desperation, I decided to go to a store that screams teeny bopper. Pushing my way through racks of multi-colored zebra-print hoodies, I found racks and racks of neon prom dresses. Tacky? Most definitely. But like I said, I already struck out at all the logical places, so I grabbed a handful of highlighter pinks, blues and yellows, and pressed on to the 1 x 1 foot dressing stall, designed in such a way that the door only covers your torso, leaving your legs and top of your head in plain view. I tried on a neon-blue number, with cheap little craft store gems glue-gunned to the neckline. I pulled the zipper up the back, caught one look in the mirror, and decided that I’d be better off wearing my business suit than this. I started to undo the zipped from the back, it snagged. Damnit. I twisted the dress around and tried to pull. Nothing. Not even a budge. I tried to pull the dress over my head. Nope. Tried to push it past my hips. Yeah right. So there I was, stuck in this taffeta nightmare.  

And I did what everyone reading this would do in the same situation; I called my mother into the miniature stall. She tried. We tried. And oh my God, that evil little zipper wouldn’t budge. I began to panick. I could not spend the rest of my life in this horror show of neon and lace. So I tried to rip my way out of it… I turned it inside out (while it was still on me….) and began to rip on the lining and rip out the zipper. With a certain amount of violence, I finally freed myself from the blue jaws of death. Twenty-five minutes later.  

So then I did what any upright citizen would do, I put the dress on the rack and booked it out of there– with my parents in tow. The entire time my mother was looking behind us, half expecting some skinny high-school girl in ripped denim to be chasing us through the mall.

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