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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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From Kuoi.com

 

I have something I have to admit to you.  It’s something I am not proud of, but due to recent events I feel it is relevant and important to tell you: 

 I am a recovering Twitterholic

After one three-hour Twitter binge, I knew it was time to stop the Tweet. I must clarify, I’m a Twitter stalker, not a creator. I believe as of the last time I went to my Twitter, I was regularly following almost 100 Tweeters. I have only been on Twitter once since to look at Apolo Ohno’s page during the Olympics. Admittedly, it was a bad idea knowing my previous addiction, but I was able to back off and go on a Ohno YouTube binge instead. 

The reason this is relevant now is that Twitter is part of my course curriculum. Our professor offered us an out, but there is something about the allure of stal— Twitter that I cannot deny. If you are unfamiliar with Twitter, it is a social networking site where individuals encourage stalkers by posting information as to their whereabouts approximately every 2.3 minutes. There is even an application you can use that pin-points your exact location on a map using the GPS in your phone, so that stalkers find you even more easily. I believe this application was adapted from a similar method Paris Hilton uses to inform the paparazzi of her whereabouts. It’s a stalkers’ dream scape, and sadly, my personal vice. 

With that, I will return to my Twitter page, clear out the cobwebs, and look at about 6 months worth of posts that I missed out on. Good-bye GPA, hello random pictures of Pete Wentz’s lunch.

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From PostRejects.com

I fear we’re all getting a little dumber. Spend three minutes on textsfromlastnight.com and you’ll understand what I mean. Maybe it’s not actually that we’re becoming dumber, but we’re just more apt to share our idiocy with the world. It is very possible that people of the early 1800s got smashed and ended up naked in the back of their neighbors’ buggy covered in raspberry jam, but they weren’t posting Twitpics of it.
   

With that, here is a list of 5 dumb things that should be stopped:

 
5.
Using symbols in place of letters.
Dear Ke$ha- what gives? A dollar sign is not an “s.” It will never, ever be an “s.” Please stop. It was fine when you were in middle school trying to fit in with the cool kids K8lyn and @shley and N!cole. But it’s 2010, you’re 23, and it’s not cute.

4. Twitpics of food.
If you have nothing interesting to say, get off Twitter. I don’t care how awesome your tofurkey burger with cranberry wasabi from McYuppies was, I don’t want to see it.

3. Starbucks.
Speaking of McYuppies…

2. Non-news stories being dressed up to look like news stories.
 Lindsay Lohan is suing E*Trade for $100 million dollars over an advertisement where a character named Lindsay is described as a “milkoholic.” Ridiculous? Yes. More ridiculous? MSNBC reported on it. So did CNN. So did the New York Times.

1. Movies that cost more than it would take to feed an entire third world nation.
Thanks James Cameron. Avatar  cost about $280 million according to Vanity Fair. It costs about 19 cents  a day to feed a child in an impoverished nation.  Avatar’s budget equates to 1,473,684,210.52 days worth of food.
 
 
I understand if you just think it’s way more fun to spell your name with a symbol or number that looks sort of like a letter, or if you think you’re dinner just looks so yummy you want to share it with the world, or if you love you’re tall skinny mocha latte with a double shot of espresso, or if you think Lindsay deserved an Oscar for Mean Girls, or if gone into a state of depression upon the realization that Pandora doesn’t exist, but please keep it to yourself. When the history books come out and the 2000s are remembered as the “Facebook Years,” we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.

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The future is now. With Facebook, Twitter, blogs, Flickr, etc, we’ve become our own tabloid press and paparazzi, spewing all the juicy details and drama on the wall of the Web, and waiting for someone to comment. 

Personally, I’m glued. I couldn’t leave now if I wanted to. Not so much for my own spotlight (afterall, my starlight is pretty dim, considering my followers consist solely of roommates and a few others I know)… I can’t leave the social networking scene because I love watching the drama unfold in front of me. Twitter’s a nice glimpse into the lives of others, but nothing beats Facebook drama. I stalk out people’s stories like soap operas. Watching to see who broke up with whom, who’s back in rehab, and who just had her first child before her 21st birthday.

Call me a voyeur or a creep, but you’re reading this post, so maybe you are one too.

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Holler

I see a serious problem with blogging that I wish to explore in my first post. The problem being, most people really don’t have anything interesting to say, which is unfortunate…. Actually, I take that back. These people probably do have interesting things to say, but instead try to come up with something witty or deep and the interesting parts get lost in the drone, which is even more unfortunate. That being said, this is the beginning of my blog life.

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