In Artvoice’s recent cover story, Death at Bonnaroo, the author, Andrew Blake, should have really thought twice about even attending the music festival, let alone writing a review about it. I myself have never attended Bonnaroo, but even I know that it is a modern day Woodstock knock-off, fueled by drugs, high temperatures, and free love. Mr. Blake begins and ends his article with such snarky negativity; one wonders why he bothered at all. The few bands he wanted to see hardly seem worth the apparent hell he went through for four days.
I have never been into drugs, or outdoor festivals, for that matter. This is why I avoid attending them. In the first few paragraphs of his article, Mr. Blake gives readers the impression that every single person who attends Bonnaroo is a hacky-sack carrying member of the Coalition of Hippie Drug Dealers. He regales us with tales from past years at the festival, when there were nights that “dealers” would be outside of his tent with nitrous tanks all night, interrupting Blake’s “beauty sleep.”
Among his sweeping generalizations, Mr. Blake introduces us to his new friend, David Matthew Sloan. Matt, as he went by, was described as a pretty laid back guy who somehow got trapped with this stick in the mud as a camp-mate. You see, Mr. Blake had posted a classified ad of sorts, inviting strangers on the road trip to Bonnaroo with him. Why someone would do this, when said person seems to dislike people in general, is beyond me. Don’t ask strangers along for the ride, kids. It’s akin to picking up hitchhikers, which is dangerous and illegal.
Soon after we meet Matt, we are subjected to a page and a half of Mr. Blake lamenting his previous years at Bonnaroo: The shitty bands, the pricey food, the sweltering heat, and the endless drugs. By the time we get to the point of this article, we are once again left wondering why he attended in the first place; and why we are still reading.
At one point, when giving us more background about his new buddy Matt, Blake mentions that Matt has wanted to see Dave Matthews Band at Bonnaroo for years and cannot wait until Sunday to hear them close the show. After this, we are reminded – more than once – how much Blake cannot wait to leave the festival before Dave Matthews hits the stage; yet another example of the author’s blatant disrespect throughout the article.
After one short paragraph about the bands he did enjoy – and another mention of hightailing it before DMB began their set – Blake hits on the real reason for his article: On the last day of the festival, he awakens to find that Matt has died. While the reader digests this sad news, Mr. Blake makes sure to mention that he is “the only person not knocked out hard still by rolls, ‘shrooms, molly, and everything else in that gargantuan galaxy of designer drugs that are so abundantly named.” Just so we, the readers, are clear – that means he was the only one awake and not “on something” of almost 100,000 people. Pretty impressive, Mr. Blake. He must have the best morals and will power on the planet to resist these devilish hippies and their lives of complete excess.
After the news of Matt’s untimely passing sets in, Blake paces around, and then goes to sit and wait for the cops to come and “scrape Matt’s Honda Element with a fine-tooth comb and inquire about every last incident from the night before.” Sorry to inconvenience you, pal. Thank God you got your full 8 hours of sleep the night before, or how ever would you have made it through the questions about a 29 year old man’s sudden death? Poor Mr. Blake.
The author then tells us what he found on the internet about Matt’s death; That Matt’s core body temperature had been 108 degrees and he had collapsed. Then Blake goes on to cryptically point out that toxicology reports could take weeks to come back – almost in the same breath as mentioning that Matt’s brothers made the drive to Bonnaroo to retrieve Matt’s camping gear. What was Blake’s only comment about this touching and sad moment?
“I apologized for their loss and swore, yet again, that this would be my last Bonnaroo.”
Then, with Matt’s memory quickly fading and Matt’s family and friends given no apparent thought, Mr. Blake decides to tell the readers how many drugs Matt was seen taking over the course of the festival. That the young man had been “shaking, sweating, and grabbing people” while watching a band. Blake wanted us to know just how hard Matt was partying. He wanted us to realize that he had planned to party even more, telling us about “the bag of mushrooms the cops didn’t catch when they went through (Matt’s) stuff.” And most of all, Blake wanted us to know how much this whole ordeal put him out by saying, “…and now Matt was dead and I was alone on the hood of my car…listening to goddamn Dave Matthews Band on Sunday night.” Well if that’s not the worst thing that could happen to a person, I don’t know what is; Except for maybe accidently overdosing at a festival with thousands of people watching and doing absolutely nothing to stop you or help. That would kind of suck, too.
Mr. Blake brings his article home by reminding us one last time how insensitive he is with this gem of a line; “We didn’t talk about Matt on the way home.” How lovely. A man who you set up your tent next to for a four day festival; who you probably shared at least a beer with; who you got to know in your own snobby, elitist way, is dead. He doesn’t even get a passing mention on the long car ride home? I would understand if Blake was still upset or in shock, but after reading the preceding two pages, it would seem that he was more annoyed by Matt’s death than affected by it. He concludes by, once again, promising himself that he will never attend another Bonnaroo festival. I hope, for the sake of other concert goers, he keeps his promise this time.
Of course, the obvious conclusion would be to blame Matt for his own death. He was obviously having too good of a time, not monitoring his drug intake, and overdoing it. He wasn’t staying hydrated properly in the stifling heat. Perhaps he also didn’t get enough sleep over the weekend. It was irresponsible, to say the least; But what of the other festival attendees? Could no one have stopped this young man? Not one person could have stepped in and said, “That’s enough, bro.”? The very person he slept next to – Mr. Blake, himself – probably saw Matt more regularly that most people. He had to have seen him at least a few times. So perhaps some blame can fall on his shoulders, as well. The bottom line here is this: The cops at Bonnaroo need to be more diligent; security needs to beef up and be more aware of what is happening at the festival; concertgoers have to act more responsibly and take care of themselves; and vendors need to give away cups of water when the temperature rises. Perhaps Mr. Blake could have made these points instead of sullying a young man’s memory by recounting the ways he was responsible for his own death. While Matt had a hand in his demise, there were many other factors involved; and Blake certainly didn’t have to recount Matt’s final days for his family to read with such judgment. Ultimately, I understand where the author is coming from – I just think he could have gotten the message across in a more positive, productive, and respectful manner.
My prayers go out to the family and friends of David Matthew Sloane; I hope that he did not die in vain and as a result, next year’s Bonnaroo will be an enjoyable – and safe – place for the Coalition of (Now Reformed) Hippie Drug Dealers.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Countdown Begins
In the interest of helping myself reach the goal I set two months ago (and came nowhere near achieving), I am about to do something I've never done. I'm slightly frightened, embarrassed, and hungry, but I'm forcing myself. I'm beginning to think that the part of my brain that controls will power has short circuited, and the part that enjoys pasta has grown three sizes too big. Sort of like the Grinch's heart when he decides to embrace friendship and Christmas, only this part of my brain has chosen to embrace starches and carbohydrates.
I am going to reveal my weight on a public blog. I just weighed myself, and my scale says that I weigh less than I actually do, as it has been broken for months. I just wanted to make myself feel better by seeing a lower number. The scale says 127.5. My actual weight is somewhere closer to 140. How do I know this? Because I can't fit into my clothes anymore, and I once weighed 140, so I know what 140 looks like on my body.
Before people say "140?? I'd kill to weigh 140!! But you're so tiny!" let's get some things straight here. Am I fat? No. I do not think I am obese or "fat." I am extremely out of shape, and as I get older, it's only going to become more difficult for me to lose weight and keep it off. It's better to start now. Also, let's bring in the height versus weight factor. I am 5 feet tall, though sometimes I appear to be 5'1". For someone who is 5'1", I should weigh between 105 and 120 pounds. 132 is considered overweight for someone my height. That's just science, people. Not me looking for compliments and reassurance.
There is no reason for me to be eating whatever I want. It's not good for me, and it's gross. Does anyone else out there eat two double servings of pasta per day? Do you visit McDonald's 4 times a week? Do you down 3-4 Pepsi's per day? Doubtful. I've let myself get completely out of control and I don't know why.
Two years ago, I managed to lose 20 pounds. I worked out diligently and watched what I ate. I didn't do anything extreme. I didn't even join a gym. I just used a video at my apartment 4-5 times a week, and stopped eating fast food and mac and cheese. I felt great. And somehow I fell off the wagon. Maybe it started with a cheat day, or a lazy day, or a hangover. However it started, it never stopped. And when I stopped waiting tables it got really out of control, because running around a restaurant was the only type of physical activity I did. Now I sit at a desk all day, munching on cheez-its and going to McDonald's for lunch. It's awful.
So, my dear friends, I have 5 weeks to lose 15 pounds, and 6 to lose 20. I want to be down to at least 125 by BRO's wedding, and 120 by the time I move to Bikini-Fake-Boobs-Personal-Trainer-Zone-Diet-Land. (I'd prefer to be down to 115, but let's not go nuts here.) I'll need everyone's help on this. Don't let me get that slice of pizza after a bar. Don't let me try that heavy wheat beer. Don't let me "cheat just for today" and eat at Arby's. Let's all help eachother be a little healthier. Or at least just me.
As I mentioned, I'm leaving Buffalo in 6 weeks. Every time I think about it, my stomach instantly rumbles with nerves. I'm nauseous as I'm typing this. It all seemed great when I went to visit back in April. I loved it so much when I was there, I didn't want to come home. But now that it's so close, my head is spinning. Can I really do this? Leave my friends and family and move across the country? I mean, I'm doing it. Don't take my rambling as me having second thoughts. I'm going. But its going to be harder than I thought. Not being able to call up a friend and meet for a drink or a movie is going to be the hardest part. Even leaving my job will be difficult. I've never felt so welcome or appreciated before. It's going to be extremely hard to leave a place that I could quite comfortably stay at until I eventually begin my actual career. Again, why couldn't this job have come along years ago??
BIL has secured an apartment for us. He sent in a deposit last week for the 2nd layout at the 1st apartment - the one I really wanted. So I'm really excited to have a gorgeous new apartment in a really funky building. And I think I've successfully talked the FAM into driving across the country to get there, so that will be fun.
Biggest fears? That I'll go out there and be no better off than I was here. That I'll be so homesick that I won't let myself fully enjoy LA and give up before I've really tried. That my friends won't care that I'm gone. That no one will come to visit and my friendships will fade away into nothing. That I'll miss big events, like 30th birthdays, weddings, and my friend's children growing up because flights are too expensive to come home. That I won't find a job. That I will find a job, but won't make any money.
But what if...? What if things are great? What if I find a really fun job in the first week that I also make great money at? What if I make great friends that don't take my other friends' places, but make me miss them just a little less? What if my Buffalo friends actually keep in touch with me and love hearing about my West Coast shenanigans? What if people actually come visit for long weekends? What if I meet the man of my dreams? What if I meet the right person and get a job writing?
Either one of these scenarios could happen. But from now until July 29th, I'm going to focus on the latter. I'm going to exercise. I'm going to daydream about how to decorate my new bedroom. I'm going to check Craigslist for cool jobs. I'm going to remember how much I absolutely loved LA and all the people we met when we visited. I'm going to think and act positively, so that maybe I'll go out there with not only a healthier body, but a healthier mind, too.
After all, I AM moving to a place that serves wheatgrass shots in bars and has yoga classes for dogs. If I'm going to fit in, I'd better start acting a little less neurotic and a lot more Zen.
I am going to reveal my weight on a public blog. I just weighed myself, and my scale says that I weigh less than I actually do, as it has been broken for months. I just wanted to make myself feel better by seeing a lower number. The scale says 127.5. My actual weight is somewhere closer to 140. How do I know this? Because I can't fit into my clothes anymore, and I once weighed 140, so I know what 140 looks like on my body.
Before people say "140?? I'd kill to weigh 140!! But you're so tiny!" let's get some things straight here. Am I fat? No. I do not think I am obese or "fat." I am extremely out of shape, and as I get older, it's only going to become more difficult for me to lose weight and keep it off. It's better to start now. Also, let's bring in the height versus weight factor. I am 5 feet tall, though sometimes I appear to be 5'1". For someone who is 5'1", I should weigh between 105 and 120 pounds. 132 is considered overweight for someone my height. That's just science, people. Not me looking for compliments and reassurance.
There is no reason for me to be eating whatever I want. It's not good for me, and it's gross. Does anyone else out there eat two double servings of pasta per day? Do you visit McDonald's 4 times a week? Do you down 3-4 Pepsi's per day? Doubtful. I've let myself get completely out of control and I don't know why.
Two years ago, I managed to lose 20 pounds. I worked out diligently and watched what I ate. I didn't do anything extreme. I didn't even join a gym. I just used a video at my apartment 4-5 times a week, and stopped eating fast food and mac and cheese. I felt great. And somehow I fell off the wagon. Maybe it started with a cheat day, or a lazy day, or a hangover. However it started, it never stopped. And when I stopped waiting tables it got really out of control, because running around a restaurant was the only type of physical activity I did. Now I sit at a desk all day, munching on cheez-its and going to McDonald's for lunch. It's awful.
So, my dear friends, I have 5 weeks to lose 15 pounds, and 6 to lose 20. I want to be down to at least 125 by BRO's wedding, and 120 by the time I move to Bikini-Fake-Boobs-Personal-Trainer-Zone-Diet-Land. (I'd prefer to be down to 115, but let's not go nuts here.) I'll need everyone's help on this. Don't let me get that slice of pizza after a bar. Don't let me try that heavy wheat beer. Don't let me "cheat just for today" and eat at Arby's. Let's all help eachother be a little healthier. Or at least just me.
As I mentioned, I'm leaving Buffalo in 6 weeks. Every time I think about it, my stomach instantly rumbles with nerves. I'm nauseous as I'm typing this. It all seemed great when I went to visit back in April. I loved it so much when I was there, I didn't want to come home. But now that it's so close, my head is spinning. Can I really do this? Leave my friends and family and move across the country? I mean, I'm doing it. Don't take my rambling as me having second thoughts. I'm going. But its going to be harder than I thought. Not being able to call up a friend and meet for a drink or a movie is going to be the hardest part. Even leaving my job will be difficult. I've never felt so welcome or appreciated before. It's going to be extremely hard to leave a place that I could quite comfortably stay at until I eventually begin my actual career. Again, why couldn't this job have come along years ago??
BIL has secured an apartment for us. He sent in a deposit last week for the 2nd layout at the 1st apartment - the one I really wanted. So I'm really excited to have a gorgeous new apartment in a really funky building. And I think I've successfully talked the FAM into driving across the country to get there, so that will be fun.
Biggest fears? That I'll go out there and be no better off than I was here. That I'll be so homesick that I won't let myself fully enjoy LA and give up before I've really tried. That my friends won't care that I'm gone. That no one will come to visit and my friendships will fade away into nothing. That I'll miss big events, like 30th birthdays, weddings, and my friend's children growing up because flights are too expensive to come home. That I won't find a job. That I will find a job, but won't make any money.
But what if...? What if things are great? What if I find a really fun job in the first week that I also make great money at? What if I make great friends that don't take my other friends' places, but make me miss them just a little less? What if my Buffalo friends actually keep in touch with me and love hearing about my West Coast shenanigans? What if people actually come visit for long weekends? What if I meet the man of my dreams? What if I meet the right person and get a job writing?
Either one of these scenarios could happen. But from now until July 29th, I'm going to focus on the latter. I'm going to exercise. I'm going to daydream about how to decorate my new bedroom. I'm going to check Craigslist for cool jobs. I'm going to remember how much I absolutely loved LA and all the people we met when we visited. I'm going to think and act positively, so that maybe I'll go out there with not only a healthier body, but a healthier mind, too.
After all, I AM moving to a place that serves wheatgrass shots in bars and has yoga classes for dogs. If I'm going to fit in, I'd better start acting a little less neurotic and a lot more Zen.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I Was With Coco
As if any of you don't know this already, I traveled to New York City a few days ago to see Conan O'Brien's "Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour" at Radio City Music Hall. I can't even think of the appropriate words to describe the actual show at the moment, so allow me to tell you a bit about my trip.
My friend Lisa and I left the area around 10:45am on Monday, thinking we'd be to NYC at around 5 or 6pm. We completely forgot that it was Memorial Day. What was supposed to be a 6 1/2 hour trip slowly turned into an 11 hour trip. We were stuck in traffic near the Poconos for two hours, and on the George Washington Bridge for about an hour and a half. The GWB was the most insane thing I've ever seen - people cutting in front of us without warning, semi trucks changing lanes at the last possible moment. People even came within inches of scraping Lisa's car a few times. It was nerve-wracking to say the least. By the time we got there, we were shaken and exhausted.
Once we arrived at our friend Christopher's place near Harlem, we ran upstairs to freshen up, then walked a few blocks to a Memorial Day barbecue. Christopher's place was much bigger than I thought it would be, but his friend's place was really nice for Harlem. Set up like a page out of a modern home-decor magazine, it was all black and white with an exposed brick wall and large terrace. It was tiny, but didn't feel that way - sort of my dream NYC apartment. (But perhaps in a slightly better location...)
We stayed at the barbecue just long enough to drown our nerves in a few cocktails, then headed back to Christohper's for a good night's sleep. We awoke early the next morning and prepared for the day ahead. Lisa and I wanted to get slightly dressed up for Conan's show later that night, but we were planning on walking around the city for a bit first. Doing that in heels obviously isn't the best idea, so Christopher kindly offered to take our dresses and heels to work with him so we wouldn't have to take the subway for 100 blocks back to his apartment. We set out for the theater district. We wanted to stay in the immediate area of Radio City so that we could stop and grab our tickets before 3:30. We found a decent looking tourist-y restaurant and sat down to have lunch.
The food was really good, but unfortunately at one point, Lisa looked up only to see a man standing behind me with his fly open and his penis sticking out of it. The strange thing was that he looked completely normal, but we couldn't figure out how he couldn't feel...a breeze. Right? I refused to look at it, but Lisa said she must have seen it about 100 times. I still don't regret my decision to avert my eyes.
After our peep show, we decided to head down to Radio City. We planned to grab the tickets and our wristbands, then go to Christopher's store to get changed. When we walked in, we were told that we couldn't get our tickets yet, and that even though the email I got said BY 3:40pm, we were actually supposed to pick them up AT 3:40. Bollocks. So Lisa and I went over to Rockafeller Center and shopped a bit for souvenirs. Soon enough, it was time to head back. This time, we got our tickets no problem. As we were about to walk away, the box office man said, "So you can head outside and get in line, and your guide will be down in a few minutes to take you to soundcheck."
Um. What?
I got selfish for a moment and forgot how excited I was to see the show (and how much my mother had paid for the tickets). I was pissed. We had been walking around in 80 degree heat all afternoon. I was sweaty. I was stinky. I had swamp ass. My hair was flat and my makeup was all but gone. I was in no shape to possibly see/meet Conan O'Brien. We had joked a few times about Conan maybe being at soundcheck, but I knew it would most likely only be the band tuning their instruments. By the time our show guide showed up, I had decided to forget about how I looked and focus on the fun I was about to have. Perhaps we'd be able to sneak out and change before the actual show.
As we lined up inside Radio City Music Hall's lobby, Lisa and I somehow managed to be 2nd and 3rd in line. Again, we thought it didn't really matter because, while still really cool, there would be no way the man himself would be there. Then this happened:
Show Guide: "Ok, guys, we're just waiting for the ok to go in. Before I get the call, I just wanted to say," (garbled talking on her walkie), "Oops! Here we go! We don't want to keep Conan waiting!"
Me: Instant stomach ache and ass sweat.
As we walked in, I think I may have blacked out a little. (This would happen several times that night, and for once, it wasn't due to drinking.) I somehow managed to move myself toward the stage, where a familiar man with crazy red hair stood, strumming his guitar. It was him. He was there. And I looked dumpy. (I know this didn't matter at all, as I wouldn't and didn't talk to him, but that was how my mind worked. As if Conan would take one look at me and say, "Oh, if only you were wearing heels - I would have left my wife and children in a heartbeat!" Please.)
The next 20 minutes were a blur of real (imagined?) eye contact and a ridiculous amount of blushing. I swear to Christ that LaBamba and I looked at each other for a full 3 seconds and laughed together. (As a quick side note, before you start to think that I seriously thought that Conan was looking at me and only me - there were only about 20-25 of us in the entire theater, we were directly in front of him, and he really had nowhere else to look while he was playing - I'm sure he made eye contact with all of us at some point. Just let me dream, ok?)
After I had sufficiently panicked enough for 20 minutes, our guide ushered those with blue wristbands (us + 15 more people) downstairs to the cocktail party while those with orange wristbands (bollocks!!) got to stay with Conan for a meet and greet. The cocktail party was fun, but uneventful. Lisa and I got stuck talking to this complete horror of a woman who loved to hear herself talk and must have mentioned Twitter at least 127 times. We could have left at that point to go get changed, but we decided that our chance to meet Conan had come and gone, and we didn't care what we looked like anymore.
The show began, and it was amazing. Conan was hilarious and adorable, and we could tell that he was really having a blast up there. He actually mocked out Leno a few times (albeit without mentioning his name) and brought out some fan favorites like the Masturbating Bear (now renamed the Self Pleasuring Panda) and the Walker, Texas Ranger Lever. Conan actually has a decent singing voice - not the stuff of record deals, but decent. He brought out Vampire Weekend for a song, and I almost had a stroke. Watching him mouth the words along with the lead singer while playing guitar was really cute. Then, the extra special portion...
Stephen Colbert was the first major guest to walk out on stage. A hilarious dance off ensued (which I'm sure most people have seen on the internet by now) that ended in Colbert "pulling his hamstring" and almost admitting defeat until a voice boomed from the back of the theater, "Don't you dare, Colbert!" Of course it was John Stewart, dressed in some sort of flamenco outfit, complete with shiny red shirt and black cumberbund. Stewart offered to take Colbert's place in the dance off, and he did until Andy Richter came out and fake shot him. As he lay fake dying, Colbert leaned down to ask him, "Can I have 11:00?" It was really funny.
Then Conan introduced SNL's Bill Hader to pull the Walker, Texas Ranger lever, and he asked the crowd what character we wanted him to do. After a beat of awkward silence, someone shouted out, "Stephen!" So Hader pulled the lever as his nervous gay club consultant.
Then, John Krasinski came out, and Lisa and I almost had seizures. He was appropriately adorable, even leaning down to shake the hand of an older woman Conan had been harrassing earlier in the show. (And yes, Lisa and I hated her with every fiber of our beings.)
Then. Paul Rudd. I blacked out again. Lisa remembers what he talked about, but I have no clue. I know I have a video of him on my camera, but I have to go out and buy a new charger before I can watch it. The suspense is killing me.
The rest of the show played out in funny, if uneventful, fashion. Conan sang a few more songs in a sparkly jacket, then came back for a fun encore. I'm sure I'm leaving many details out, but like I said, much of the night was a blur. It was honestly one of the best nights of my life. If Tina Fey had shown up, I would have spontaneously combusted.
The rest of the trip was great, but short. We left for home the next morning. As always when I leave New York City, I was sullen and teary eyed. I love that goddamned city so much. It's funny - when I was there, Christopher offered to let me move in with him for about the same as I'd be paying in LA. Hmm. What do you do when you're in love with 2 cities?
My friend Lisa and I left the area around 10:45am on Monday, thinking we'd be to NYC at around 5 or 6pm. We completely forgot that it was Memorial Day. What was supposed to be a 6 1/2 hour trip slowly turned into an 11 hour trip. We were stuck in traffic near the Poconos for two hours, and on the George Washington Bridge for about an hour and a half. The GWB was the most insane thing I've ever seen - people cutting in front of us without warning, semi trucks changing lanes at the last possible moment. People even came within inches of scraping Lisa's car a few times. It was nerve-wracking to say the least. By the time we got there, we were shaken and exhausted.
Once we arrived at our friend Christopher's place near Harlem, we ran upstairs to freshen up, then walked a few blocks to a Memorial Day barbecue. Christopher's place was much bigger than I thought it would be, but his friend's place was really nice for Harlem. Set up like a page out of a modern home-decor magazine, it was all black and white with an exposed brick wall and large terrace. It was tiny, but didn't feel that way - sort of my dream NYC apartment. (But perhaps in a slightly better location...)
We stayed at the barbecue just long enough to drown our nerves in a few cocktails, then headed back to Christohper's for a good night's sleep. We awoke early the next morning and prepared for the day ahead. Lisa and I wanted to get slightly dressed up for Conan's show later that night, but we were planning on walking around the city for a bit first. Doing that in heels obviously isn't the best idea, so Christopher kindly offered to take our dresses and heels to work with him so we wouldn't have to take the subway for 100 blocks back to his apartment. We set out for the theater district. We wanted to stay in the immediate area of Radio City so that we could stop and grab our tickets before 3:30. We found a decent looking tourist-y restaurant and sat down to have lunch.
The food was really good, but unfortunately at one point, Lisa looked up only to see a man standing behind me with his fly open and his penis sticking out of it. The strange thing was that he looked completely normal, but we couldn't figure out how he couldn't feel...a breeze. Right? I refused to look at it, but Lisa said she must have seen it about 100 times. I still don't regret my decision to avert my eyes.
After our peep show, we decided to head down to Radio City. We planned to grab the tickets and our wristbands, then go to Christopher's store to get changed. When we walked in, we were told that we couldn't get our tickets yet, and that even though the email I got said BY 3:40pm, we were actually supposed to pick them up AT 3:40. Bollocks. So Lisa and I went over to Rockafeller Center and shopped a bit for souvenirs. Soon enough, it was time to head back. This time, we got our tickets no problem. As we were about to walk away, the box office man said, "So you can head outside and get in line, and your guide will be down in a few minutes to take you to soundcheck."
Um. What?
I got selfish for a moment and forgot how excited I was to see the show (and how much my mother had paid for the tickets). I was pissed. We had been walking around in 80 degree heat all afternoon. I was sweaty. I was stinky. I had swamp ass. My hair was flat and my makeup was all but gone. I was in no shape to possibly see/meet Conan O'Brien. We had joked a few times about Conan maybe being at soundcheck, but I knew it would most likely only be the band tuning their instruments. By the time our show guide showed up, I had decided to forget about how I looked and focus on the fun I was about to have. Perhaps we'd be able to sneak out and change before the actual show.
As we lined up inside Radio City Music Hall's lobby, Lisa and I somehow managed to be 2nd and 3rd in line. Again, we thought it didn't really matter because, while still really cool, there would be no way the man himself would be there. Then this happened:
Show Guide: "Ok, guys, we're just waiting for the ok to go in. Before I get the call, I just wanted to say," (garbled talking on her walkie), "Oops! Here we go! We don't want to keep Conan waiting!"
Me: Instant stomach ache and ass sweat.
As we walked in, I think I may have blacked out a little. (This would happen several times that night, and for once, it wasn't due to drinking.) I somehow managed to move myself toward the stage, where a familiar man with crazy red hair stood, strumming his guitar. It was him. He was there. And I looked dumpy. (I know this didn't matter at all, as I wouldn't and didn't talk to him, but that was how my mind worked. As if Conan would take one look at me and say, "Oh, if only you were wearing heels - I would have left my wife and children in a heartbeat!" Please.)
The next 20 minutes were a blur of real (imagined?) eye contact and a ridiculous amount of blushing. I swear to Christ that LaBamba and I looked at each other for a full 3 seconds and laughed together. (As a quick side note, before you start to think that I seriously thought that Conan was looking at me and only me - there were only about 20-25 of us in the entire theater, we were directly in front of him, and he really had nowhere else to look while he was playing - I'm sure he made eye contact with all of us at some point. Just let me dream, ok?)
After I had sufficiently panicked enough for 20 minutes, our guide ushered those with blue wristbands (us + 15 more people) downstairs to the cocktail party while those with orange wristbands (bollocks!!) got to stay with Conan for a meet and greet. The cocktail party was fun, but uneventful. Lisa and I got stuck talking to this complete horror of a woman who loved to hear herself talk and must have mentioned Twitter at least 127 times. We could have left at that point to go get changed, but we decided that our chance to meet Conan had come and gone, and we didn't care what we looked like anymore.
The show began, and it was amazing. Conan was hilarious and adorable, and we could tell that he was really having a blast up there. He actually mocked out Leno a few times (albeit without mentioning his name) and brought out some fan favorites like the Masturbating Bear (now renamed the Self Pleasuring Panda) and the Walker, Texas Ranger Lever. Conan actually has a decent singing voice - not the stuff of record deals, but decent. He brought out Vampire Weekend for a song, and I almost had a stroke. Watching him mouth the words along with the lead singer while playing guitar was really cute. Then, the extra special portion...
Stephen Colbert was the first major guest to walk out on stage. A hilarious dance off ensued (which I'm sure most people have seen on the internet by now) that ended in Colbert "pulling his hamstring" and almost admitting defeat until a voice boomed from the back of the theater, "Don't you dare, Colbert!" Of course it was John Stewart, dressed in some sort of flamenco outfit, complete with shiny red shirt and black cumberbund. Stewart offered to take Colbert's place in the dance off, and he did until Andy Richter came out and fake shot him. As he lay fake dying, Colbert leaned down to ask him, "Can I have 11:00?" It was really funny.
Then Conan introduced SNL's Bill Hader to pull the Walker, Texas Ranger lever, and he asked the crowd what character we wanted him to do. After a beat of awkward silence, someone shouted out, "Stephen!" So Hader pulled the lever as his nervous gay club consultant.
Then, John Krasinski came out, and Lisa and I almost had seizures. He was appropriately adorable, even leaning down to shake the hand of an older woman Conan had been harrassing earlier in the show. (And yes, Lisa and I hated her with every fiber of our beings.)
Then. Paul Rudd. I blacked out again. Lisa remembers what he talked about, but I have no clue. I know I have a video of him on my camera, but I have to go out and buy a new charger before I can watch it. The suspense is killing me.
The rest of the show played out in funny, if uneventful, fashion. Conan sang a few more songs in a sparkly jacket, then came back for a fun encore. I'm sure I'm leaving many details out, but like I said, much of the night was a blur. It was honestly one of the best nights of my life. If Tina Fey had shown up, I would have spontaneously combusted.
The rest of the trip was great, but short. We left for home the next morning. As always when I leave New York City, I was sullen and teary eyed. I love that goddamned city so much. It's funny - when I was there, Christopher offered to let me move in with him for about the same as I'd be paying in LA. Hmm. What do you do when you're in love with 2 cities?
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