Let's see if she'll crack under pressure!
- Security guard at the House of Blues.
I understand getting carded before receiving a pink wrist band for drinks... but getting interrogated? Homie, do I really look that young?
The dude stared at my license, then me, my license, then me, and once again at my license... and then me. Then he made that comment.
"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't get nervous."
Umm... alright?
It didn't make me feel young... which... is probably why I was bothered so much by it. Just thinking he thought I was a minor, eager to get the damn wristband made me a little mad.
Fuck your wristband, dude! I'm not an alcoholic.
I just wanted to mark myself apart from all the other tiny young kids there.... besides the parents, Chase and I were one of the oldest chicks there.
Bummer, man.
Ya estoy ruca pa' la chingada!
P.S. I can't believe it's June already! I once again have Mexico fever, where I'm fuckin' counting down the days till I leave this inferno (43 days!!) and head to cooler climates where it rains all pretty... and there are horses... and people from all over the U.S. I haven't seen in a year get there... and where we get to look for ghosts at the town cemetery (ok, that gives me nightmares for months, so it's not so fun)... and where I get to eat all the Dirty-Word-Candy I want (haha. I ate the last piece today. Bummed me out a little, but at least now I can say stuff like "Man, I miss Panocha"<-- that feels HORRIBLE to say outloud. Horrible.)... and where I play volleyball for hours until the sun goes down!
Oh! I'm so excited (even if I'm considered even older over there... stupid teenagers and their youth)!
Showing posts with label concert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label concert. Show all posts
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
What's sparkly, drunk, and more annoying than a Scene Kid?
Geeeeeeeeeeeze!
I used to be a clubber... from 8th grade till Senior year of high school (Rave scene... I was in my annoying stage... and senior year it was maybe twice... and only because there was one other idiot who would encourage me to go). Am I a clubber now? HELL NAW!
I'm un-cool, we all know that. I like things like... I don't know... the outdoors maybe? I guess you could say I like the free-maybe-a-couple-of-dollars type of entertainment (although there are a numbered few activities that aren't so cheap that I do enjoy).
Nightclubs never really tempted me. If you would have asked me at 16 if I wanted to go to a nightclub though, I probably would have ran over to the nightclub itself.
But now... I don't really care for them.
"Is it because you can't dance?"
I get that all the time.
Bitch, I'm Mexican, rhythm runs through my blood. I'm born knowing how to dance!
"What are you? A Jehovah's Witness?"
Nah... but I could be if I wanted.
"Are you embarrassed?"
Eh, kinda. I'm anti-social... so... clubs... with pricks that only really want to fuck you doesn't make me that comfortable.
My reluctance to go to night clubs seems to baffle my clubber friends, Lucky Soprano in particular.
Their desire to go to nightclubs baffles me.
I had promised Lucky that I'd go to her party at Tao.
Then my grandpa died... and I felt a little awkward about the whole thing (I mean, tradition calls for a year of being chill and not really partying. I think spending only 3 weeks in mourning may be a little on the jacked up side).
However, Lucky Soprano didn't understand why I'd wait so long to party (she doesn't understand the concept of guilt. Although she sent me on a bad guilt trip by informing me that "If you only knew how much this party cost me! You'd understand why I wanted you to come to this thing so bad")... so in order to not flake on her ONCE AGAIN, I decided to go to her party.
***
As I was getting ready for this clubbing experience... a couple of my aunts and cousins came over to the house to give Mom their condolences. Where was I? In my bedroom... getting ready... feeling like an ass and praying to God that Mom wouldn't call me over to say hi to them because who knows what they would have said if they saw me getting ready to party so shortly after my grandfather died (and we know these people love to talk).
I thought I was going to get caught by the family before I left the house... but they happened to leave about 5 minutes before my ride got in.
So yes, we had originally been told that this partying would start around 8:30 PM at a pub... then we'd move it on over to TAO.
Well, when we called Lucky to see where this pub was at, she informed us that "Um, yeah, about that... there isn't going to be a pub. We're at *Prettybutrudegirl*'s house. We're getting ready there and we're all gonna leave at around 10:15 to get to TAO no later than 10:45."
Ok... nice. I'm glad you called us to inform us of this change in plans, wait, you didn't? Oh... so how did you expect us to know about this had we not been too ADD to pay attention to where this pub was and then call you to confirm in the first place? Oh, that's right, you weren't.
This had me and Chase pretty pissed... so we chilled at Chase's house by watching some George Clooney movie as I straightened her hair (one of the only girly tasks I actually enjoy).
Once 10:20 rolled around (You know, we did that as an act of rebellion to try and piss off these people), we decided to leave Chase's place and head out to the Venetian.
Once we got there at about 10:45, we called Lucky Soprano to see where the gaggle was, and lo-and-behold, they were yet to get there.
Niiice.
They finally arrived at 11 PM.
Lucky had failed to inform us that the party wasn't just going to be about her, but also Prettybutrudegirl.
Niiice.
I have no real issue with Prettybutrudegirl... aside from how much I've disliked her since I met her back in ninth grade when she was a hardcore bitch to me in PE (So what? I hold grudges. Don't ever piss me off and we'll be cool). I still remember her trying to "teach" me how to hold a bat during softball. I had to fight the urge of telling her:
Bitch, I was raised in the ghetto... you think I don't know how to hold a bat? Come here, let me just give you a nice tap upside your head and you tell me if my batting stance is acceptable to your softball gods.
Anyway, this news made me even more uncomfortable/irritated.
The group was of about 12 people... actually, about 12 girls and 3 guys. All the guys were douche bags... big time... so I don't originally consider them "people" in my story.
The girls were all trying to participate in small talk. Chase and I participated in "God, this is so stupid" conversation.
These people had tried their hardest at making it appear like they were super VIP at night clubs (at least, that's what they claim in their Myspace profiles and pictures). Well, guess what... their super VIP status was put to the test when they had us waiting outside for an hour. Super VIP status... made me feel like Jennifer Lopez, for real.
It sucked balls to realize one of the girls responsible for ringing us in/shooting us up/whatever the fuck the slang is for "letting us in to use the fucking elevator to our VIP area," turned out to be some bitch we knew in high school.
Now, the girl never really had beef with me... I wrote her Huckleberry Finn book report Junior year of high school... so she was OK with me... but apparently, she didn't like many of the girls in our group. So, according to the people in the group, it was all thanks to her that we waited outside for so long (maybe next time, you shouldn't be such a dick to other people... you know, we all remember, and given the opportunity to exercise any sort of power over you, believe me honey, you're gonna be paying for those bad moments you made us pass).
Once we got to our area... it was all so weird. It made me feel like I was in some sort of bad dream.
It's so fucking retarded.
And they call me a nerd!
AHAHAHAHA. AHAHAHA. AHAHAHA.
Good stuff.
Dancing while walking to your seat? Dancing while serving yourself a screw driver? Dancing while walking with a bucket of ice?
AHAHAHA. AHAHAHA!!!! AHAHAHA!
Alright dude... I'm a nerd... but at least I'm not a douche.
For a while, I just stood around.
WTF, dude, am I supposed to stand here with my bag over my shoulder... and just start dancing? Right here? You mean... there's no dance floor? OMG... and I thought Mexican night clubs were ghetto/retarded. No wonder you guys have no rhythm... you dance in a living room setting.
It didn't help that all they were playing was ghetto music.
I don't do ghetto (I can, but I don't).
I was surprised to see they had no techno... or house... or even jungle.
Dr. Dre?
Cypress Hill?
What the hell is this? 1992?
What's funnier than watching a bunch of spoiled, drunk, white kids dance to, and sing along to, Tupac's California Love? NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.
Want me to pour one for the homies, while we're at it? Where the hell's my 40?
When I finally got a seat, Chase and I sat around... and counted how many people we had superior dancing skills to... and it was more than half the room... but I guess sober people have an advantage over drunks.
I also sat directly in front of the go-go dancers that dance on top of the sofa... that was interesting.
Mom... when I grow up... I want to be a Go-Go dancer! (seriously... now I understand why God made me the way I am. Had I been given the body type that easily forms a six pack, I'd be dancing my ass off in tiny little skirts and a bra the whole time. It's just fucking amazing)
It was even more entertaining to see the drunken girls trying to imitate the Go-Go dancers. It wasn't so fun when the drunken girls started climbing the sofa to get to the top of it to start dancing... not fun at all.
Particularly, it was not fun when the chubbier girl of the group decided she wanted to do just that. Now, there wouldn't have been a problem had she been wearing, say, pants. No, but she was wearing a flowy black dress... that resembled a shirt... and under that... a black G-string. How do I know? Well, she had to flash me before she got on the sofa (remember, I was sitting in front of it, where people had to climb on). It was cool for the hard-bodied Go-Go dancers to do (I'm sure men and women alike wouldn't mind that)... but her? Man, why would you ever be so inconsiderate and wear so little?
It wasn't just me who she flashed, but everyone else seated on the sofa... and we all made the same, distraught, AH!-Now-I-must-cleanse-these-eyes-with-acid face.
Not a cool thing to do... and I must say, brave soul whoever decides to ride that.
Then one of the chicks in the group decided she wanted to talk to both Chase and I... mainly because during one of her drunken dancing marathons, she stepped on Chase's foot.
DrunkenFootStomper: Hey, I know you...
Chase: Yeah, we went to Durango together.
DFS: Oh yeah! I remember you! You used to have really long hair! That was up to like... here (she touches Chase's arm to where her hair used to be)
Chase: Yeah... (how the hell does she know me?)
DFS: Well, nice to meet you, I'm *DFS*!
Chase: Hey, she went to Durango too.
(Great... now she's focusing on me. Quick... lift your feet off the floor and place them on sofa!)
DSF: Hey! I'm *DSF*! What's your name?
Me: Hey, I'm *AnoMALIE*
DSF: AnoMALIE? AnoMELIE?... Like the model? Campbell?
Me: Yeah, I guess (If my parents were native English speakers... and I don't really like being associated to that phone-flinging criminal of a runway model)
DSF: Cool! Do you know *Name of model who I really don't know*?
Me: ...No.
DSF: Ah, well, she used to be this famous model back in the day. My Mom named me after her!
Me: Cool?
DSF: Model! Model! Model! Model! Cool!
(She was pointing at herself... then me... her, then me. Then she high-fived me. She walked away to dance and stomp on some other people's feet. Chase leaned in and screamed)
Chase: Drunk, sober, drunk, sober!
Ahh... lovely drunk people conversations.
So yes... Chase and I sat there... saw and heard thing that made us gag or laugh... and finally decided to leave once 1 o'clock came around. We just couldn't take it anymore.
***
I don't understand... I see nothing that attracts me to that scene. I tend to enjoy the scene in Mexico a lot more, even if it is packed with cocaine usage and everything (from others, never me). At least they play better music... and people are convulsing because of the cocaine high... not because they think it's "dancing."
Silly U.S. kids... silly, silly, silly.
What got me through the night, you may ask? Well, aside from my rosary that's in the shape of a bracelet (I had to take off my little virgin around my neck because it would have looked "tacky" to mix silver with gold), knowing that I had a concert to go to today made it all better.
Scene kids... I'll never complain about you guys... at least you jump to the beat of the music... and you're much more attractive than the clubbers with caked-on make-up... and you're nicer and don't talk so much shit.
My apologies, gentle, misunderstood people (I'm still making fun of you if you have a tie wrapped around your head, sorry).
I used to be a clubber... from 8th grade till Senior year of high school (Rave scene... I was in my annoying stage... and senior year it was maybe twice... and only because there was one other idiot who would encourage me to go). Am I a clubber now? HELL NAW!
I'm un-cool, we all know that. I like things like... I don't know... the outdoors maybe? I guess you could say I like the free-maybe-a-couple-of-dollars type of entertainment (although there are a numbered few activities that aren't so cheap that I do enjoy).
Nightclubs never really tempted me. If you would have asked me at 16 if I wanted to go to a nightclub though, I probably would have ran over to the nightclub itself.
But now... I don't really care for them.
"Is it because you can't dance?"
I get that all the time.
Bitch, I'm Mexican, rhythm runs through my blood. I'm born knowing how to dance!
"What are you? A Jehovah's Witness?"
Nah... but I could be if I wanted.
"Are you embarrassed?"
Eh, kinda. I'm anti-social... so... clubs... with pricks that only really want to fuck you doesn't make me that comfortable.
My reluctance to go to night clubs seems to baffle my clubber friends, Lucky Soprano in particular.
Their desire to go to nightclubs baffles me.
I had promised Lucky that I'd go to her party at Tao.
Then my grandpa died... and I felt a little awkward about the whole thing (I mean, tradition calls for a year of being chill and not really partying. I think spending only 3 weeks in mourning may be a little on the jacked up side).
However, Lucky Soprano didn't understand why I'd wait so long to party (she doesn't understand the concept of guilt. Although she sent me on a bad guilt trip by informing me that "If you only knew how much this party cost me! You'd understand why I wanted you to come to this thing so bad")... so in order to not flake on her ONCE AGAIN, I decided to go to her party.
***
As I was getting ready for this clubbing experience... a couple of my aunts and cousins came over to the house to give Mom their condolences. Where was I? In my bedroom... getting ready... feeling like an ass and praying to God that Mom wouldn't call me over to say hi to them because who knows what they would have said if they saw me getting ready to party so shortly after my grandfather died (and we know these people love to talk).
I thought I was going to get caught by the family before I left the house... but they happened to leave about 5 minutes before my ride got in.
So yes, we had originally been told that this partying would start around 8:30 PM at a pub... then we'd move it on over to TAO.
Well, when we called Lucky to see where this pub was at, she informed us that "Um, yeah, about that... there isn't going to be a pub. We're at *Prettybutrudegirl*'s house. We're getting ready there and we're all gonna leave at around 10:15 to get to TAO no later than 10:45."
Ok... nice. I'm glad you called us to inform us of this change in plans, wait, you didn't? Oh... so how did you expect us to know about this had we not been too ADD to pay attention to where this pub was and then call you to confirm in the first place? Oh, that's right, you weren't.
This had me and Chase pretty pissed... so we chilled at Chase's house by watching some George Clooney movie as I straightened her hair (one of the only girly tasks I actually enjoy).
Once 10:20 rolled around (You know, we did that as an act of rebellion to try and piss off these people), we decided to leave Chase's place and head out to the Venetian.
Once we got there at about 10:45, we called Lucky Soprano to see where the gaggle was, and lo-and-behold, they were yet to get there.
Niiice.
They finally arrived at 11 PM.
Lucky had failed to inform us that the party wasn't just going to be about her, but also Prettybutrudegirl.
Niiice.
I have no real issue with Prettybutrudegirl... aside from how much I've disliked her since I met her back in ninth grade when she was a hardcore bitch to me in PE (So what? I hold grudges. Don't ever piss me off and we'll be cool). I still remember her trying to "teach" me how to hold a bat during softball. I had to fight the urge of telling her:
Bitch, I was raised in the ghetto... you think I don't know how to hold a bat? Come here, let me just give you a nice tap upside your head and you tell me if my batting stance is acceptable to your softball gods.
Anyway, this news made me even more uncomfortable/irritated.
The group was of about 12 people... actually, about 12 girls and 3 guys. All the guys were douche bags... big time... so I don't originally consider them "people" in my story.
The girls were all trying to participate in small talk. Chase and I participated in "God, this is so stupid" conversation.
These people had tried their hardest at making it appear like they were super VIP at night clubs (at least, that's what they claim in their Myspace profiles and pictures). Well, guess what... their super VIP status was put to the test when they had us waiting outside for an hour. Super VIP status... made me feel like Jennifer Lopez, for real.
It sucked balls to realize one of the girls responsible for ringing us in/shooting us up/whatever the fuck the slang is for "letting us in to use the fucking elevator to our VIP area," turned out to be some bitch we knew in high school.
Now, the girl never really had beef with me... I wrote her Huckleberry Finn book report Junior year of high school... so she was OK with me... but apparently, she didn't like many of the girls in our group. So, according to the people in the group, it was all thanks to her that we waited outside for so long (maybe next time, you shouldn't be such a dick to other people... you know, we all remember, and given the opportunity to exercise any sort of power over you, believe me honey, you're gonna be paying for those bad moments you made us pass).
Once we got to our area... it was all so weird. It made me feel like I was in some sort of bad dream.
It's so fucking retarded.
And they call me a nerd!
AHAHAHAHA. AHAHAHA. AHAHAHA.
Good stuff.
Dancing while walking to your seat? Dancing while serving yourself a screw driver? Dancing while walking with a bucket of ice?
AHAHAHA. AHAHAHA!!!! AHAHAHA!
Alright dude... I'm a nerd... but at least I'm not a douche.
For a while, I just stood around.
WTF, dude, am I supposed to stand here with my bag over my shoulder... and just start dancing? Right here? You mean... there's no dance floor? OMG... and I thought Mexican night clubs were ghetto/retarded. No wonder you guys have no rhythm... you dance in a living room setting.
It didn't help that all they were playing was ghetto music.
I don't do ghetto (I can, but I don't).
I was surprised to see they had no techno... or house... or even jungle.
Dr. Dre?
Cypress Hill?
What the hell is this? 1992?
What's funnier than watching a bunch of spoiled, drunk, white kids dance to, and sing along to, Tupac's California Love? NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.
Want me to pour one for the homies, while we're at it? Where the hell's my 40?
When I finally got a seat, Chase and I sat around... and counted how many people we had superior dancing skills to... and it was more than half the room... but I guess sober people have an advantage over drunks.
I also sat directly in front of the go-go dancers that dance on top of the sofa... that was interesting.
Mom... when I grow up... I want to be a Go-Go dancer! (seriously... now I understand why God made me the way I am. Had I been given the body type that easily forms a six pack, I'd be dancing my ass off in tiny little skirts and a bra the whole time. It's just fucking amazing)
It was even more entertaining to see the drunken girls trying to imitate the Go-Go dancers. It wasn't so fun when the drunken girls started climbing the sofa to get to the top of it to start dancing... not fun at all.
Particularly, it was not fun when the chubbier girl of the group decided she wanted to do just that. Now, there wouldn't have been a problem had she been wearing, say, pants. No, but she was wearing a flowy black dress... that resembled a shirt... and under that... a black G-string. How do I know? Well, she had to flash me before she got on the sofa (remember, I was sitting in front of it, where people had to climb on). It was cool for the hard-bodied Go-Go dancers to do (I'm sure men and women alike wouldn't mind that)... but her? Man, why would you ever be so inconsiderate and wear so little?
It wasn't just me who she flashed, but everyone else seated on the sofa... and we all made the same, distraught, AH!-Now-I-must-cleanse-these-eyes-with-acid face.
Not a cool thing to do... and I must say, brave soul whoever decides to ride that.
Then one of the chicks in the group decided she wanted to talk to both Chase and I... mainly because during one of her drunken dancing marathons, she stepped on Chase's foot.
DrunkenFootStomper: Hey, I know you...
Chase: Yeah, we went to Durango together.
DFS: Oh yeah! I remember you! You used to have really long hair! That was up to like... here (she touches Chase's arm to where her hair used to be)
Chase: Yeah... (how the hell does she know me?)
DFS: Well, nice to meet you, I'm *DFS*!
Chase: Hey, she went to Durango too.
(Great... now she's focusing on me. Quick... lift your feet off the floor and place them on sofa!)
DSF: Hey! I'm *DSF*! What's your name?
Me: Hey, I'm *AnoMALIE*
DSF: AnoMALIE? AnoMELIE?... Like the model? Campbell?
Me: Yeah, I guess (If my parents were native English speakers... and I don't really like being associated to that phone-flinging criminal of a runway model)
DSF: Cool! Do you know *Name of model who I really don't know*?
Me: ...No.
DSF: Ah, well, she used to be this famous model back in the day. My Mom named me after her!
Me: Cool?
DSF: Model! Model! Model! Model! Cool!
(She was pointing at herself... then me... her, then me. Then she high-fived me. She walked away to dance and stomp on some other people's feet. Chase leaned in and screamed)
Chase: Drunk, sober, drunk, sober!
Ahh... lovely drunk people conversations.
So yes... Chase and I sat there... saw and heard thing that made us gag or laugh... and finally decided to leave once 1 o'clock came around. We just couldn't take it anymore.
***
I don't understand... I see nothing that attracts me to that scene. I tend to enjoy the scene in Mexico a lot more, even if it is packed with cocaine usage and everything (from others, never me). At least they play better music... and people are convulsing because of the cocaine high... not because they think it's "dancing."
Silly U.S. kids... silly, silly, silly.
What got me through the night, you may ask? Well, aside from my rosary that's in the shape of a bracelet (I had to take off my little virgin around my neck because it would have looked "tacky" to mix silver with gold), knowing that I had a concert to go to today made it all better.
Scene kids... I'll never complain about you guys... at least you jump to the beat of the music... and you're much more attractive than the clubbers with caked-on make-up... and you're nicer and don't talk so much shit.
My apologies, gentle, misunderstood people (I'm still making fun of you if you have a tie wrapped around your head, sorry).
Sunday, April 15, 2007
That's the last time you ruin my life, cheese!
Oh man... I'm so... disappointed.
That man right there... Mr. Figueroa-Arce aka Chayanne (that man does not age one bit!) has broken my heart.
I've been a fan since... hmm... I can remember. He was the first guy I can remember ever having a crush on.
Oh wow. Why am I glued to the television right now? I... want that guy.
My mom even tells me a story where I was around three and a half and I asked her to buy him for me.
Yeah. I have no idea why the hell I said that... but Mom always manages to embarrass me by bringing that up around others.
He's always been a good guy... a role model of not only an artist, but just a man in general. His smile makes me melt... his voice makes me smile... and... oh... just thinking about him makes me fan my blushing face.
He's one of the only artists I'll sing along to without a care in the world.
I'd always wanted to go to one of his concerts, but for some reason, he never made it out to Vegas in all of his 23-year-long career. I guess he didn't think enough Latinos lived in Las Vegas (ahahaha! oh man... that made me laugh) to make a decent profit. At one point I thought about going to Miami or LA to catch one of his shows (especially when he was on tour with Alejandro Fernandez and Marc Anthony... I would have promised my first born to anyone who could have gotten me in) out of fear of me dying or him retiring before I'd ever be able to see him live.
Then, this morning I saw a commercial announcing his upcoming concert on the 10th of June at the Aladdin. I freaked (of course) and hopped around the house a little (c'mon now, he's my freaking idol). Mom said she'd buy me the best tickets, so I went on-line in search for them before she finished talking.
Now, Chase has brought up the fact that I pay too much for concert tickets. I never believed her until recently. Each concert I've ever attended with her has been great... and never over 20 bucks a ticket. Shit, she got us tickets to go see The Gathering (I'm stoked for that thing! Shiny Toy Guns and They Might Be Giants.. HOLLER!) in May for a little under 11 dollars each ticket... and that to me is fucking amazing.
So when I got on ticket master and saw tickets for Chayanne were $128, $88, and $58, I was crushed.
What the hell?! Last time I paid that much for a ticket was back in 2000 when I was an idiot for the Backstreet Boys... HELL NO!
So my bubble was burst.
Mom said she'd still pay for my ticket, but that I'd have to go alone or find someone else who'd pay $128 to go with me.
"Well, shit... why would I want to do that? I love Chayanne... but this is disappointing. What the hell were his promoters thinking?!"
I would have accepted my Mom's offer if... no... never. I'm through with paying that much for a ticket. I'll dish about 75 bucks max for a good V.I.P. seat... even something around the 90's for certain artists... but almost $130? Hell no. It's not like he'll make out with me if I pay that much... I don't even think I'll get a few drops of his sweat splashed on me for that price.
I'll see his pretty face... hear his pretty Puerto Rican accent... see his pearly whites... and jam to the songs I grew up with (there's this one waltz he sings that I had to dance to in a total of 6 Quinceañeras. "Tiempo de valz... duh-ruh ruh-ruh... ruh-ruh"). Maybe I'll have the chance to scream "Te Ammmmmmmmmmo! Wooo!" a couple of times... but after that I'll just feel stupid.
Damn, Chayanne! Do you know how hard it'll be for me to sit at home on June 10th thinking:
Fuck... right now Chayanne's singing and dancing to a bunch of crazy ladies... and I'm not there!
I'll never get to meet my first love.
:(
Fuck you, cheese company (one of the companies sponsoring the event)!You rip people off like fucking crazy... does the damn Pupusa lady not buy enough cheese to support your damn company, or what?
That man right there... Mr. Figueroa-Arce aka Chayanne (that man does not age one bit!) has broken my heart.I've been a fan since... hmm... I can remember. He was the first guy I can remember ever having a crush on.
Oh wow. Why am I glued to the television right now? I... want that guy.
My mom even tells me a story where I was around three and a half and I asked her to buy him for me.
Yeah. I have no idea why the hell I said that... but Mom always manages to embarrass me by bringing that up around others.
He's always been a good guy... a role model of not only an artist, but just a man in general. His smile makes me melt... his voice makes me smile... and... oh... just thinking about him makes me fan my blushing face.
He's one of the only artists I'll sing along to without a care in the world.
I'd always wanted to go to one of his concerts, but for some reason, he never made it out to Vegas in all of his 23-year-long career. I guess he didn't think enough Latinos lived in Las Vegas (ahahaha! oh man... that made me laugh) to make a decent profit. At one point I thought about going to Miami or LA to catch one of his shows (especially when he was on tour with Alejandro Fernandez and Marc Anthony... I would have promised my first born to anyone who could have gotten me in) out of fear of me dying or him retiring before I'd ever be able to see him live.
Then, this morning I saw a commercial announcing his upcoming concert on the 10th of June at the Aladdin. I freaked (of course) and hopped around the house a little (c'mon now, he's my freaking idol). Mom said she'd buy me the best tickets, so I went on-line in search for them before she finished talking.
Now, Chase has brought up the fact that I pay too much for concert tickets. I never believed her until recently. Each concert I've ever attended with her has been great... and never over 20 bucks a ticket. Shit, she got us tickets to go see The Gathering (I'm stoked for that thing! Shiny Toy Guns and They Might Be Giants.. HOLLER!) in May for a little under 11 dollars each ticket... and that to me is fucking amazing.
So when I got on ticket master and saw tickets for Chayanne were $128, $88, and $58, I was crushed.
What the hell?! Last time I paid that much for a ticket was back in 2000 when I was an idiot for the Backstreet Boys... HELL NO!
So my bubble was burst.
Mom said she'd still pay for my ticket, but that I'd have to go alone or find someone else who'd pay $128 to go with me.
"Well, shit... why would I want to do that? I love Chayanne... but this is disappointing. What the hell were his promoters thinking?!"
I would have accepted my Mom's offer if... no... never. I'm through with paying that much for a ticket. I'll dish about 75 bucks max for a good V.I.P. seat... even something around the 90's for certain artists... but almost $130? Hell no. It's not like he'll make out with me if I pay that much... I don't even think I'll get a few drops of his sweat splashed on me for that price.
I'll see his pretty face... hear his pretty Puerto Rican accent... see his pearly whites... and jam to the songs I grew up with (there's this one waltz he sings that I had to dance to in a total of 6 Quinceañeras. "Tiempo de valz... duh-ruh ruh-ruh... ruh-ruh"). Maybe I'll have the chance to scream "Te Ammmmmmmmmmo! Wooo!" a couple of times... but after that I'll just feel stupid.
Damn, Chayanne! Do you know how hard it'll be for me to sit at home on June 10th thinking:
Fuck... right now Chayanne's singing and dancing to a bunch of crazy ladies... and I'm not there!
I'll never get to meet my first love.
:(
Fuck you, cheese company (one of the companies sponsoring the event)!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
All the pretty Scene Kids.
I'm handicapped for the weekend. I feel like such an old lady!
I was doing my typical hour cardio yesterday early afternoon and everything was fine. however, once I stepped off the treadmill, and began my stretches, I noticed something was up with my lower back.
What the... hell... did I do to my back?
Stretches I can do for five minutes each were so painful to me, and I couldn't even touch my toes.
Dude, either I've just gained twenty pounds while sleeping, or I just... f*ed up my back.
(I must admit, this lent thing is really annoying me because I'm starting to sound like Ned Flanders with all these invented words I use to prevent myself from cussing. LAME life to live.)
As I attempted to stretch a little more, I noticed the pain wasn't going anywhere, and that it was only increasing. I therefore limped my ass to my room, thought that taking a hot shower would help, but even then I was having problems. I can only imagine how ladies feel when they have hip-replacement surgery... it was bad.
Now, I could have had an OK day trying to recuperate, but this damned injury occurred the day of the Cartel show. Hmm... stay home and rest my bad right hip... or go to a concert with the homies? Well, hello! What am I gonna need my hip for, anyway? Let the show go on!
I limped all over the place, unable to take long strides as I walked... which could have been a disaster in the parking lot if we would have arrived later (totally possible with my slow ass that takes 3+ hours to pick out an outfit-- as much as it may appear that I do not).
My two friends and I stood against a wall the entire time, and I had to be standing because bending down was quite a painful hassle for me (I can't even feed my dog, for crying out loud!).
I have no idea how long it's been since my last English-speaking concert, but man!! have things changed! Where the hell did all these scene kids come from? What in the... what are they thinking when they get ready to go out? How are they going to explain some of their hair/clothing choices when they get older and see pictures of themselves?? I would have taken pictures of some of the worst styles I saw, but I didn't want scene kids to flock to the flash like the moths they are (if you're a scene kid, bite me!). But let me just say: if your hair resembles a skunk, or like if you've just been in a brawl--and lost-- with a pack of wild Dingos, please don't let it smell like it too.
Anyway, the bands preceding Cartel were great. Very talented as opposed to previous bands I've been subjected to (their names I no longer remember due to their my-balls-are-being-attacked-with-an-ice-pick high pitch piercing my eardrums, forcing my brain to enter survival-mode, entering a catatonic state where nothing is memorable now). In particular, Quietdrive where the lead singer busted out a violin and won me over (bring out a string instrument, play the s**t out of it, and you'll win my admiration for life. That's just the orchestra-nerd way). All the bands had a great vocal quality to them... and Cobra Starship... well... Gabe's just one hilarious man. That's another fast way to my heart: crack me up, and make fun of yourself, and you'll have me forever. Plus, Gabe was the best dancer up there... that guy can rock to any beat. Viva Uruguay.
While Cartel played, my best homie wanted to buy merch, so we went outside. So much smoking was going on, I swear a day of my life has been shaved off (one less day of painful hip-replacement surgery to put up with, I suppose). While out there, band members of Boys Like Girls went out, were semi-mauled by 14 year old 4'8" girls, and signed autographs. I must say... the lead singer is one gorgeous man. Nice as well... signing crap like Starbucks containers for little dumb girls who'll have ulcers before Senior year of High School.
The worst was when Gabe from Cobra came out. Now that guy was mauled. Best-homie and I were caught in the middle of the action and were smothered against Gabe's tiny ass/long legs.
"KISS ME, GABE!"
KISS.
"AHHHH!" (I feel sorry for that girl's future boyfriend... I hope she doesn't pull off that kind of stunt after he kisses her)
How can people deal with that s**t? How can people do that to others? After a while I was more like: F*ck it, let's go. This s*it is aggravating me and my ass is being touched by unknown s*it... and luckily I have no penis, or else I'd be about to ass rape this poor guy if we don't leave this damn crowd now.
The whole time I stood there I thought of Cameron Diaz and how she says autographs are stupid, and how reportedly she'll lecture a fan who asks her to sign one on just how stupid autographs are.
Dude, Cameron, you got a point there (but I still got Gabe's autograph... haha).
I was doing my typical hour cardio yesterday early afternoon and everything was fine. however, once I stepped off the treadmill, and began my stretches, I noticed something was up with my lower back.
What the... hell... did I do to my back?
Stretches I can do for five minutes each were so painful to me, and I couldn't even touch my toes.
Dude, either I've just gained twenty pounds while sleeping, or I just... f*ed up my back.
(I must admit, this lent thing is really annoying me because I'm starting to sound like Ned Flanders with all these invented words I use to prevent myself from cussing. LAME life to live.)
As I attempted to stretch a little more, I noticed the pain wasn't going anywhere, and that it was only increasing. I therefore limped my ass to my room, thought that taking a hot shower would help, but even then I was having problems. I can only imagine how ladies feel when they have hip-replacement surgery... it was bad.
Now, I could have had an OK day trying to recuperate, but this damned injury occurred the day of the Cartel show. Hmm... stay home and rest my bad right hip... or go to a concert with the homies? Well, hello! What am I gonna need my hip for, anyway? Let the show go on!
I limped all over the place, unable to take long strides as I walked... which could have been a disaster in the parking lot if we would have arrived later (totally possible with my slow ass that takes 3+ hours to pick out an outfit-- as much as it may appear that I do not).
My two friends and I stood against a wall the entire time, and I had to be standing because bending down was quite a painful hassle for me (I can't even feed my dog, for crying out loud!).
I have no idea how long it's been since my last English-speaking concert, but man!! have things changed! Where the hell did all these scene kids come from? What in the... what are they thinking when they get ready to go out? How are they going to explain some of their hair/clothing choices when they get older and see pictures of themselves?? I would have taken pictures of some of the worst styles I saw, but I didn't want scene kids to flock to the flash like the moths they are (if you're a scene kid, bite me!). But let me just say: if your hair resembles a skunk, or like if you've just been in a brawl--and lost-- with a pack of wild Dingos, please don't let it smell like it too.
Anyway, the bands preceding Cartel were great. Very talented as opposed to previous bands I've been subjected to (their names I no longer remember due to their my-balls-are-being-attacked-with-an-ice-pick high pitch piercing my eardrums, forcing my brain to enter survival-mode, entering a catatonic state where nothing is memorable now). In particular, Quietdrive where the lead singer busted out a violin and won me over (bring out a string instrument, play the s**t out of it, and you'll win my admiration for life. That's just the orchestra-nerd way). All the bands had a great vocal quality to them... and Cobra Starship... well... Gabe's just one hilarious man. That's another fast way to my heart: crack me up, and make fun of yourself, and you'll have me forever. Plus, Gabe was the best dancer up there... that guy can rock to any beat. Viva Uruguay.
While Cartel played, my best homie wanted to buy merch, so we went outside. So much smoking was going on, I swear a day of my life has been shaved off (one less day of painful hip-replacement surgery to put up with, I suppose). While out there, band members of Boys Like Girls went out, were semi-mauled by 14 year old 4'8" girls, and signed autographs. I must say... the lead singer is one gorgeous man. Nice as well... signing crap like Starbucks containers for little dumb girls who'll have ulcers before Senior year of High School.
The worst was when Gabe from Cobra came out. Now that guy was mauled. Best-homie and I were caught in the middle of the action and were smothered against Gabe's tiny ass/long legs.
"KISS ME, GABE!"
KISS.
"AHHHH!" (I feel sorry for that girl's future boyfriend... I hope she doesn't pull off that kind of stunt after he kisses her)
How can people deal with that s**t? How can people do that to others? After a while I was more like: F*ck it, let's go. This s*it is aggravating me and my ass is being touched by unknown s*it... and luckily I have no penis, or else I'd be about to ass rape this poor guy if we don't leave this damn crowd now.
The whole time I stood there I thought of Cameron Diaz and how she says autographs are stupid, and how reportedly she'll lecture a fan who asks her to sign one on just how stupid autographs are.
Dude, Cameron, you got a point there (but I still got Gabe's autograph... haha).