NIGHT 1: Portugal. The Man w/ Crystal Fighters
Since moving back to D.C., I've been going to a fair amount of concerts. I would've loved to go to more shows in L.A., but there were a few factors preventing me -- 1) Money, 2) Driving (and then inevitably going into a parking lot or to a valet in which case you can refer back to #1). Now that I get off work while it's still daylight and am feet away from a metro stop, it makes things a lot easier. This past Tuesday I attended the Portugal. The Man show in Silver Spring, MD. I would've gone with my concert/life buddy, Laura, but she had already seen them at Coachella. Oh, want to know more about my experience at Coachella? Well just click here, here AND/OR here.
I may or may not have already mentioned at some point during my textual ramblings that I'm big on doing things alone. I'm going to link it to the fact that I'm an only child, and NOT because I've recently picked up a hobby of being misanthropic. In L.A. going to the movies alone was just about as normal as driving one block to get groceries, or excusing yourself at work to go have your phone therapy session. I get the sense that in D.C., attending things alone somehow gives people the idea that you are (not by choice) very, very, painfully, unfortunately alone. I have TONS of friends. I have like, SO many friends. That's why the majority of the night I was on my phone. Hangin' with my biffs on Instagram.
Back to the concert. I arrived at the Fillmore and unfortunately didn't have a chance to charge my phone before I left for the show. So I BYO'd my charger and had the bartender plug it in. Well, now I was REALLY alone. I walked in and saw there was a 2nd floor balcony area with seating. No way was I going to potentially have the spectators overhead judge me for being alone. But how would they kn-- OH THEY'D KNOW. I hopped upstairs and grabbed a piece of railing right as Crystal Fighters took the stage. Listen, if anyone was going to be judging anyone else, IT WAS GOING TO BE ME. And judge I did.
Crystal Fighters. Let's see. They are basically a paella of band stereotypes and it really, really works for them. If you have a chance to see them live GO.
By the way, that video is exactly what their show felt like.
I knew a few of their songs, but the majority of the people had no clue who they were -- as evidenced by the women in front of me wikipedia-ing the band. I bet if they accidentally clicked the link for "The Dark Crystal" they probably would have thought it was the correct summary. And then there were the DIE HARDS. This was a group of about 5 people in the middle of the crowd downstairs who were LOSING THEIR MOTHER FUCKING SHIT (yes the profanity is necessary to demonstrate the intensity of their exuberance). Remember that scene in "Independence Day" when the cultish group at the top of the Empire State Building gets ready for the aliens to benignly abduct them? That. That plus plaid. Arms everywhere, heads tilted back, bodies swaying in a motion that looked like they had suddenly become invertebrates/inflatable car sale outdoor figures. I start laughing to myself, and didn't really stop until the end of their set.
The percussionist comes out. I'm going to use that title loosely, since he was the percussionist and so much more. First -- his look. He had long hair, strong brows, and an open eastern-inspired tunic exposing his bare chest. So basically an energy healer from any soon-to-be released Adam Sandler movie. His set up included bongos, tambourines, reclaimed driftwood fashioned into a massive xylophone of sorts, pan flutes, rain sticks, Bobby McFerrin & Michael Winslow from "Police Academy 1, 2, 3, 4" and "Police Academy: Mission to Moscow" (as well as the short lived "Police Academy" TV series), live turtles with painted shells, assorted skulls, a yeti, non GMO kale, and like 15 MacBooks -- all atop a Persian carpet. Can I ask you something? Sure I can, this is my blog. I'm wondering, does every band now have the guy who mans what looks like the DEFCON 3 of musical dashboards? Laptops, synths, beat machines, "The Jetsons'" Rosie? I feel like that, in and of itself, is a band, and now things like playing the guitar and singing live are about to become vestigial facets of a dead art. I think it's the neo-Luddite in me, but it freaks me out. We can't put all our dependance on machinery, because one day they WILL turn on us. That's why I've always been really nice to my Roomba. Who knows when the revolution will happen. But when it does, it's sure to be televised and synthesized.
So the dude starts playing his beachwood, and out comes the bassist. I now have proof that time travel is real. He emerged from the portal originating in his mom's 1992 Seattle garage. He has his bass slung sub-crotch level low, tight low/NO rise pants, vans, and no shirt cause... why would anyone wear a shirt? It seems like a hassle. UGHGHGHHHHHH ANOTHER BUTTON? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS SLEEVE? CUFF IT? WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE MY NECK IS TRAPPED? I GIVE UP. He starts bass-ing as his other bandmate is tapping his own cheeks, and then out come the two backup singers. One looked like she got kicked out of Haim, pre-fame:
The other appeared to be a more sexual Anne/Egg from "Arrested Development." Then. The lead singer emerged. He looked about 6 feet tall, wearing black on black "for comfort" Asics, a skirt over jeans, and all of Blanche Devereaux's black tie optional options. I couldn't see his face because he had a sparkly gold sheet over his head, like a fAbuLouS KKK member. He starts singing with the fabric still on his head, and I am still laughing, still trying to figure out what the fuck is occurring in front of my eyes. During the second song he whips off the shroud, revealing 90's Versace-esque sunglasses and an adorable man bun (which was what I'm assuming propped up the cloth).
I can only describe their music as "infectious." I was compelled to keep the beat, and would hit the railing, shake my purse, drum on my neighbor's back, and just pat anything in the near vicinity. It was awesome, and you should see them and support the freedom to make weird art, as well as their drug habit.
Then, between songs, the bassist goes up to the mic and imparts his wisdom upon the Silver Spring, MD crowd. "Hey. I just want to thank you for coming tonight. Because you chose to be in the present with us, tonight. The future is a dream, and the past. The past... is also a dream. But the present is real. THIS is reality. And we thank you for being real with us." If someone could throw that into google translate for me, that would be great. The lead singer then leans into his mic, "That was deep brother." Apparently the 4th Dimension exists, and the musicians in Crystal Fighters occupy that space.
They also revealed something I have never before seen -- the ELECTRIC UKELELE. I'm going to let that sink in. A ukelele. Connected to an amp. So all you clowns out there who just bought one off Amazon Prime, super psyched for your free shipping and alt culture back alley cred, ya done. Oh, your ukelele is acoustic? That's... nice. STEP UP YO TEENY STRINGED INSTRUMENT GAME, SON.
I may or may not have already mentioned at some point during my textual ramblings that I'm big on doing things alone. I'm going to link it to the fact that I'm an only child, and NOT because I've recently picked up a hobby of being misanthropic. In L.A. going to the movies alone was just about as normal as driving one block to get groceries, or excusing yourself at work to go have your phone therapy session. I get the sense that in D.C., attending things alone somehow gives people the idea that you are (not by choice) very, very, painfully, unfortunately alone. I have TONS of friends. I have like, SO many friends. That's why the majority of the night I was on my phone. Hangin' with my biffs on Instagram.
Back to the concert. I arrived at the Fillmore and unfortunately didn't have a chance to charge my phone before I left for the show. So I BYO'd my charger and had the bartender plug it in. Well, now I was REALLY alone. I walked in and saw there was a 2nd floor balcony area with seating. No way was I going to potentially have the spectators overhead judge me for being alone. But how would they kn-- OH THEY'D KNOW. I hopped upstairs and grabbed a piece of railing right as Crystal Fighters took the stage. Listen, if anyone was going to be judging anyone else, IT WAS GOING TO BE ME. And judge I did.
Crystal Fighters. Let's see. They are basically a paella of band stereotypes and it really, really works for them. If you have a chance to see them live GO.
By the way, that video is exactly what their show felt like.
I knew a few of their songs, but the majority of the people had no clue who they were -- as evidenced by the women in front of me wikipedia-ing the band. I bet if they accidentally clicked the link for "The Dark Crystal" they probably would have thought it was the correct summary. And then there were the DIE HARDS. This was a group of about 5 people in the middle of the crowd downstairs who were LOSING THEIR MOTHER FUCKING SHIT (yes the profanity is necessary to demonstrate the intensity of their exuberance). Remember that scene in "Independence Day" when the cultish group at the top of the Empire State Building gets ready for the aliens to benignly abduct them? That. That plus plaid. Arms everywhere, heads tilted back, bodies swaying in a motion that looked like they had suddenly become invertebrates/inflatable car sale outdoor figures. I start laughing to myself, and didn't really stop until the end of their set.
The percussionist comes out. I'm going to use that title loosely, since he was the percussionist and so much more. First -- his look. He had long hair, strong brows, and an open eastern-inspired tunic exposing his bare chest. So basically an energy healer from any soon-to-be released Adam Sandler movie. His set up included bongos, tambourines, reclaimed driftwood fashioned into a massive xylophone of sorts, pan flutes, rain sticks, Bobby McFerrin & Michael Winslow from "Police Academy 1, 2, 3, 4" and "Police Academy: Mission to Moscow" (as well as the short lived "Police Academy" TV series), live turtles with painted shells, assorted skulls, a yeti, non GMO kale, and like 15 MacBooks -- all atop a Persian carpet. Can I ask you something? Sure I can, this is my blog. I'm wondering, does every band now have the guy who mans what looks like the DEFCON 3 of musical dashboards? Laptops, synths, beat machines, "The Jetsons'" Rosie? I feel like that, in and of itself, is a band, and now things like playing the guitar and singing live are about to become vestigial facets of a dead art. I think it's the neo-Luddite in me, but it freaks me out. We can't put all our dependance on machinery, because one day they WILL turn on us. That's why I've always been really nice to my Roomba. Who knows when the revolution will happen. But when it does, it's sure to be televised and synthesized.
So the dude starts playing his beachwood, and out comes the bassist. I now have proof that time travel is real. He emerged from the portal originating in his mom's 1992 Seattle garage. He has his bass slung sub-crotch level low, tight low/NO rise pants, vans, and no shirt cause... why would anyone wear a shirt? It seems like a hassle. UGHGHGHHHHHH ANOTHER BUTTON? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS SLEEVE? CUFF IT? WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE MY NECK IS TRAPPED? I GIVE UP. He starts bass-ing as his other bandmate is tapping his own cheeks, and then out come the two backup singers. One looked like she got kicked out of Haim, pre-fame:
 |
| Photo credit. I'm really scared of the internet police. |
The other appeared to be a more sexual Anne/Egg from "Arrested Development." Then. The lead singer emerged. He looked about 6 feet tall, wearing black on black "for comfort" Asics, a skirt over jeans, and all of Blanche Devereaux's black tie optional options. I couldn't see his face because he had a sparkly gold sheet over his head, like a fAbuLouS KKK member. He starts singing with the fabric still on his head, and I am still laughing, still trying to figure out what the fuck is occurring in front of my eyes. During the second song he whips off the shroud, revealing 90's Versace-esque sunglasses and an adorable man bun (which was what I'm assuming propped up the cloth).
I can only describe their music as "infectious." I was compelled to keep the beat, and would hit the railing, shake my purse, drum on my neighbor's back, and just pat anything in the near vicinity. It was awesome, and you should see them and support the freedom to make weird art, as well as their drug habit.
Then, between songs, the bassist goes up to the mic and imparts his wisdom upon the Silver Spring, MD crowd. "Hey. I just want to thank you for coming tonight. Because you chose to be in the present with us, tonight. The future is a dream, and the past. The past... is also a dream. But the present is real. THIS is reality. And we thank you for being real with us." If someone could throw that into google translate for me, that would be great. The lead singer then leans into his mic, "That was deep brother." Apparently the 4th Dimension exists, and the musicians in Crystal Fighters occupy that space.
They also revealed something I have never before seen -- the ELECTRIC UKELELE. I'm going to let that sink in. A ukelele. Connected to an amp. So all you clowns out there who just bought one off Amazon Prime, super psyched for your free shipping and alt culture back alley cred, ya done. Oh, your ukelele is acoustic? That's... nice. STEP UP YO TEENY STRINGED INSTRUMENT GAME, SON.
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| I'm somewhere between a loss for, and too many words for this picture. |
Up next, Portugal. The Man, also with a NASA control center of electronics. Their setup was awesome -- they had these white pyramids onto which drawings and super colorful images were projected. Think "The Phantom Tollbooth" x Lisa Frank.
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| RIGHT? |
As we know (and celebrate), the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is dead. But she has left a void, only to be filled by "Girl with Bangs who Plays the Tambourine." I'm sorry "And Sometimes Sings 'Ooooh Aaaaah' While Maybe Tapping a Casio with Her Pointer Fingers." No, she's as integral a member of the band as are those 903485903479438978943785934 pedals. She was beautiful and talented, but to me these girls are becoming an indie rock trope -- much like the wardrobe consisting of faded Hawaiian shirts with "Children of the Corn"-esque to-the-neck button styling. Friends, I'm just bitter because I'm super jealous. I'd love to be in a band where you get to travel the world while looking like Françoise Hardy. Maybe I can sell myself as being the first chick who plays the game "Simon" like it's a legitimate instrument. It's just too damn bad I look horrible with bangs. Never meant to be. Le sigh, I guess it's just you and me, Excel spreadsheets. You SUM:(m+e).
Their show was fantastique (which is French for fantastic), and it seemed like they played one song right into the next, into the next, taking maybe like 2-3 breaks the entire show. Or I was high on Crystal Fighters. (I don't think "Breaking Bad" is really over, because that group was Heisenberg-ed out of their gourds.)
Here's my favorite song off PTM's (referring to them as such due to sheer laziness) latest album, "Evil Friends." I've had this on repeat since their show; wouldn't Simon be the PERFECT ADDITION??.
Here's my favorite song off PTM's (referring to them as such due to sheer laziness) latest album, "Evil Friends." I've had this on repeat since their show; wouldn't Simon be the PERFECT ADDITION??.
NIGHT 2: Two Door Cinema Club w/ St. Lucia and Smallpools
This past Friday, I get a message from my gchat soulmate Laura: "Want to go to the Two Door Cinema Club concert tonight? We can get free tickets." My response: "YES. DEFINITELY YES. FUCK YES. Sure." To be honest, I was probably more excited about the fact the tickets were free. Free stuff is always better. Costco aisle samplers, the current room and board rate at my Bossmother's apartment, or an entire swag ensemble I now own featuring apparel from the TLC/"Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" collection (thanks goes again to my HBB, Laura).
I had just finished work, and decided to take a leisurely stroll down to DAR Constitution Hall carrying a 10 pound gym bag, and my unnecessarily large work tote. At about step 4, I was sweating from any, and all sweat-producing areas. Leave it to D.C. to have an 85 degree October night. Well done, D.C. Apparently you didn't think you were dysfunctional enough at the moment. As I walk up the steps to the entrance, I notice something. In flats, I'm about a foot taller than most of the people coming to see this show. I see clues all around me: Impenetrable groups off girls somehow still managing to walk in a full circle formation, selfies everywhere, what looked like attempts at YouTube makeup tutorials, and braces. I was at a show, surrounded by 14 year old girls, and I just knew it was a matter of time until someone pegged me as a teen mom accompanying my soon-to-make-equally-as-bad-decisions daughter.
Laura showed up, and our first interaction was obviously comparing our sweating.
Laura showed up, and our first interaction was obviously comparing our sweating.
"Knee pit?"
"Yup. Eyebrows/lip/hairline?"
"Obviously. Elbow crook?"
"The worst."
We then grabbed our tickets from will call. By the way -- a big thank you to McKee F. for the tickets! Orchestra! Again, free things! I went to the bathroom, and was assaulted by pitches and octaves coming from teenage girls that seem to only exist in Morgan Freeman-narrated nature documentaries. I sidled to an empty mirror and proceeded to rearrange my post-work Picasso face into something that was a semblance of a moderately rested human being. As I'm tracing my marionette lines with my finger, I notice a girl adjusting her bralet that she was attempting to pull off as a shirt, and just thought "This. Right now. Is probably the hardest part of her day." The underwire wasn't really cooperating, and to be fair, that can suck. But it doesn't suck as much as working a 9-10 hr day with a desk lunch of Skinny Cow chocolate caramels. So... I win...? By the way, this is why the internet is the worst, and the equation of what we know as the "World Wide Web" + puberty is fatal. "For guys, jeans or denim shorts are good." Are they? Also, please note the ads for "Disney Channel Auditions."
Laura and I then head to our seats. The Daughters of the America Revolution (despite being a fundamentally racist and backwards institution) really knows the way to my heart: A concert with assigned seating. Once I sat down I slowly turned my head towards Laura, and she just knew, and shook her head. There was no way we were standing up for this opening, opening act.
The first act, Smallpools, came onstage. The SECOND these girls had the SLIGHTEST HINT of testosterone/pheromones/Zac Efrons they just freaked the fuck out. No other way to explain it. Jumping, hitting, grasping, gasping, SCREAMING. Screaming. Like vocal Guantanamo. I looked around and made eye contact with a dad. A poor father, undeserving of this abuse. I stepped into another phase of adulthood when I sympathized with this parent. He's working hard all week, and then gets dragged by his daughter, let's call her Amanda, Amanda, who obviously has to bring her friends Sarah, Lauren, Katie, and Amanda P., because duh they do everything everywhere together. (DO KIDS STILL SAY 'DUH?' HELP ME.) And his Friday night is now spent shuttling these girls whose energy and enthusiasm, if harnessed, could power a small Midwestern town, to a concert he will probably not enjoy, and then hear a play-by-play of the entire night, the he too has already experienced and most likely wanted to leave in the past. We were all the anonymous father that night. And by "all," I mean me. I was. I mentally transformed into a 45 year old working father of a teenage daughter.
Back to the music, cause that's why we're all here, right? Smallpools. Um, they looked and played like an indie band formed by Lou Pearlman. That's basically it. Super unmemorable. I also resented them because they were really rilin' up the crowd. "HOW WE DOING D.C.? EVERYONE GET UP!" No. "LET'S GO D.C." Go where? Do we have to? "COME ON, WE WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDS UP, GET THOSE HANDS UP!" OK, this has gone too far. Hands are staying down. I will not be your crowd hype hostage. "GET 'EM UP!" No, Smallpools. I refuse to put my hands up in the air, and I will NOT wave them around like someone who does not have a care.
After their set, there was finally the semblance of a lull. Laura and I started to get excited because the next act was St. Lucia (who in my opinion should be headlining their own tour but who's going to listen to me, I'm just a gal who writes her thoughts in a blog so I don't end up saying them out loud to myself).
The band takes the stage and they were glorious, despite the fact that there was a guy standing behind what looked like ENIAC and (again) another girl tapping at the synthesizer. She also looked super out of place. Like an adult ex-gymnast who was going to a high school "Flashback" dance as someone from Palm Beach in the 60's. At one point I just turned to Laura and said "She must be a cousin or family friend..." Later, I noticed she was playing the exact same chords at the exact same time as Dexter's Laboratory over on the left side of the stage. I asked Laura what that was about, and she said "Well, his is probably a keyboard and hers is a synthesizer." To which I responded "Or hers is unplugged and they never told her..."
Let me reiterate how good St. Lucia is -- they are very good. The other amazing thing about the band is that everyone just looked super psyched to be alive! It was like "HEY! I'M PLAYING A GUITAR! THIS IS FUN! YOU'RE SMILING! I'M SMILING!" Like more socially-adept Flanders children. Laura and I were bopping away, enjoying their tunes, when I was so rudely taken out of my zone by the row of girls in front of me. I noticed one girl pulling up a picture of the Smallpools frontman on her iPhone. Because I'm a super nosy observer (you're welcome) I witnessed something I wish I could un-see. I'm now forcing you, my reader, to share in this pain. The girl who pulled up the super posed, super emo picture of the lead singer turned the phone to her friend, who BTW TOTALLY approved of her taste in men, and then turned the phone back to face her. She then put the phone close to her mouth and mimed licking his face, millimeters from the screen. One -- that iPhone was probably dirtier than a Coney Island Boardwalk toilet, and two -- YOUNG LADY, THAT TONGUE BELONGS IN YOUR MOUTH AND THE ONLY PURPOSE IT YIELDS IS FOR SPEECH AND DIGESTION. St. Lucia's aural Wellbutrin faded to the back, and all I could hear was this (start at 1:17, unless you're into smart dialogue and Dick Van Dyke):
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| HELP ME, YEEZUS. |
Laura and I then head to our seats. The Daughters of the America Revolution (despite being a fundamentally racist and backwards institution) really knows the way to my heart: A concert with assigned seating. Once I sat down I slowly turned my head towards Laura, and she just knew, and shook her head. There was no way we were standing up for this opening, opening act.
The first act, Smallpools, came onstage. The SECOND these girls had the SLIGHTEST HINT of testosterone/pheromones/Zac Efrons they just freaked the fuck out. No other way to explain it. Jumping, hitting, grasping, gasping, SCREAMING. Screaming. Like vocal Guantanamo. I looked around and made eye contact with a dad. A poor father, undeserving of this abuse. I stepped into another phase of adulthood when I sympathized with this parent. He's working hard all week, and then gets dragged by his daughter, let's call her Amanda, Amanda, who obviously has to bring her friends Sarah, Lauren, Katie, and Amanda P., because duh they do everything everywhere together. (DO KIDS STILL SAY 'DUH?' HELP ME.) And his Friday night is now spent shuttling these girls whose energy and enthusiasm, if harnessed, could power a small Midwestern town, to a concert he will probably not enjoy, and then hear a play-by-play of the entire night, the he too has already experienced and most likely wanted to leave in the past. We were all the anonymous father that night. And by "all," I mean me. I was. I mentally transformed into a 45 year old working father of a teenage daughter.
Back to the music, cause that's why we're all here, right? Smallpools. Um, they looked and played like an indie band formed by Lou Pearlman. That's basically it. Super unmemorable. I also resented them because they were really rilin' up the crowd. "HOW WE DOING D.C.? EVERYONE GET UP!" No. "LET'S GO D.C." Go where? Do we have to? "COME ON, WE WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDS UP, GET THOSE HANDS UP!" OK, this has gone too far. Hands are staying down. I will not be your crowd hype hostage. "GET 'EM UP!" No, Smallpools. I refuse to put my hands up in the air, and I will NOT wave them around like someone who does not have a care.
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| We're all wearing chucks, so we're a band. |
The band takes the stage and they were glorious, despite the fact that there was a guy standing behind what looked like ENIAC and (again) another girl tapping at the synthesizer. She also looked super out of place. Like an adult ex-gymnast who was going to a high school "Flashback" dance as someone from Palm Beach in the 60's. At one point I just turned to Laura and said "She must be a cousin or family friend..." Later, I noticed she was playing the exact same chords at the exact same time as Dexter's Laboratory over on the left side of the stage. I asked Laura what that was about, and she said "Well, his is probably a keyboard and hers is a synthesizer." To which I responded "Or hers is unplugged and they never told her..."
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| Can you share a Grammy with Siri? |
Let me reiterate how good St. Lucia is -- they are very good. The other amazing thing about the band is that everyone just looked super psyched to be alive! It was like "HEY! I'M PLAYING A GUITAR! THIS IS FUN! YOU'RE SMILING! I'M SMILING!" Like more socially-adept Flanders children. Laura and I were bopping away, enjoying their tunes, when I was so rudely taken out of my zone by the row of girls in front of me. I noticed one girl pulling up a picture of the Smallpools frontman on her iPhone. Because I'm a super nosy observer (you're welcome) I witnessed something I wish I could un-see. I'm now forcing you, my reader, to share in this pain. The girl who pulled up the super posed, super emo picture of the lead singer turned the phone to her friend, who BTW TOTALLY approved of her taste in men, and then turned the phone back to face her. She then put the phone close to her mouth and mimed licking his face, millimeters from the screen. One -- that iPhone was probably dirtier than a Coney Island Boardwalk toilet, and two -- YOUNG LADY, THAT TONGUE BELONGS IN YOUR MOUTH AND THE ONLY PURPOSE IT YIELDS IS FOR SPEECH AND DIGESTION. St. Lucia's aural Wellbutrin faded to the back, and all I could hear was this (start at 1:17, unless you're into smart dialogue and Dick Van Dyke):
I apologize. If you're still affected by the the iPhone image, here's a mental palate cleanser:
Finally, Two Door Cinema Club (or TDCC, again, lazy) took the stage. Well, if I didn't have epilepsy before, I sure do now. Their stage show consisted of every entrance light from Spencer's Gifts. Despite retinal burning, the show was excellent. They're so good live, and had insane energy the entire show. Also the lead singer is a ginger. But like, REALLY ginger. He's also 23. You know what I was doing at 23? A lot. Of nothing.
When I wasn't being Manchurian Candidate'd by their lights, I would stare at this 20-something blonde who was in the 2nd or 3rd row just dancing like no one was watching. Except there were a potential 1,000 people watching. Definitely 2: Me, and her boyfriend...? Male companion...? Guy who was sleeping with her after the show. Now when I say she was drunk, I'm talking shoes off, twirling in the aisle, thinking she was at a DMB show in 2002, drunk. While she was shaking it to a beat that was definitely in her head, I realized my legs started to hurt. I'd been standing up for about an hour, hour and 1/2, and flashed back to 7th grade science where I learned that doormen usually faint because of poor circulation due to constantly being on their feet. If I was going to faint, it would be on MY terms. No way was I going to faint in front of these kids, only to elicit a response of--
"OMG what happened?!"
"I think she fainted... cause she's old..."
"Yeah, totally. OMG my grandma once fainted."
"Really?"
BECAUSE SHE SAW YOUR TUMBLR.
I attempted a smooth dance transition into foot rub and aisle quad stretch. Luckily with the constant assault of light, I think I got away with it.
After the concert we went outside and chatted with our friends, commiserating on how old we felt, but that it's cool these kids have decent taste in music. HAHAHAHA what am I saying, they probably saw them on the "Featured On Tonight's Show" card after "The Vampire Diaries." While the teens went to their carpool lines frenetically talking about wanting to lick all the lead singers' faces, we were talking about how Vitamin B is good for that 4pm workday energy boost.
YOLO!!!!! As in, we should take care of our bods. Because, WOHO (We Only Have One).
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