It’s twenty minutes before my Airborne Toxic Event road trip begins. Nails are painted, booze is packed, and legs are shaven. I’m ready to hit the town. This means Urban Girl is reborn.
Is it mandatory Urban Girl to have a straw cowboy hat?
As I’ve described before about being Urban Girl, there’s freedom in her life. She can do whatever she wants whenever she wants. If I want to start drinking the moment I wake up, I can. I feel like I could be my own Tragic Spinster but with less sausage talk.
Today starts the classic sequel to the franchise with a road trip. Insert Bestie, another hip chick with pink hair, ready to hit the town with no limits. She did cringe a bit when I mentioned the drinking when we wake up. We probably won’t. BUT WE COULD. Most likely we won’t. But maybe.
They definitely look like they’ve been drinking.
No Urban Girl fantasy would be complete without the self-reflection along the way. I’m going to try to write a post to give insight into the trip as it’s going. You’ll have a better chance of getting info if you follow me on Twitter. And even all this is subject to the fact we don’t start drinking the moment we wake up and I’ve already kinda wavered on that.
Why do all these chicks on road trips have their arms out of the window?
Is this a little vague for you? A little aloof? Left in the air without knowing what will happen? Classic Urban Girl mystery. Nobody knows what she’s going to do. The only thing everyone does know is it will be whatever the hell she wants. Totes.
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A few weeks ago, I was in despair about the fact it was quickly coming up on month three of the year and I did not have one concert under my belt. Worse than that, I didn’t even have one planned. There was a battle cry put out into the world through Twitter and my friend, The Tragic Spinster, answered the call. (Yes, I’ve moved to only saying friend because she hasn’t rejected any of my drunk tweets.) With her recommendation, I now know the ‘Canadians are coming, the Canadians are coming,’ and I plan to see them.
Whose the new band? They are called Elliott Brood and in my head they’re of the same sound as Mumford and Sons. It’s a folky trio with lots of acoustic guitar and a raspy voiced lead singer. I’ve already picked out the one I’m going to drop Trag’s name to see if he wants a homeland hookup. He meets her qualifications of having a beard. (I know, she’s tough.) I can’t wait.
As part of any good pre-concert agenda, I’ve been listening to them regularly. This has been a bit more difficult since their US album won’t release until the day before the concert. But as always, You Tube saves the day. I’ve been able to hear their most popular tunes by watching their videos. I’ve even signed up to follow them on Twitter for updates and get my friendly stalking underway. One update talked about tweeting your favorite live video to be entered into the contest to win tickets. When perusing through the options, there’s been a bit of concern raised about this upcoming concert.
Elliott Brood fans are white. Let me clarify, they are whiter than white, whitest folks who cannot dance. Please don’t misunderstand. These are my people. I’m the worst white dancer in the world and I embrace this. But usually there are a few white peeps in the crowd who add energy and rhythm with their moves. Watching videos of Elliott Brood’s audience showed me those people do not attend these shows. (BTW, you people in the “Beer Tent” are giving a bad name to us drunks everywhere who are extra loud and obnoxious after mixing alcohol.) If you don’t believe me, check this out:
Now in another video filled with a white-faced crowd, there is tons of energy. They’re beating their maple leafed drum and having a helluva time. This is the crowd I’m hoping for on Wednesday to rub my Urban Girl elbows with:
Either crowd, I’m super excited to check out a concert and get the feeling of live music back in my bones. It’ll also be a good time in the big city with one of my besties. (Yeah, I said besties, so suck it.) If all things go well, hopefully I’ll hook up Tragic Spinster with the bearded guitarist so she can showcase her awesome collection of jokes aboot BJs. (That’s all the Canadian I speak.) If you doubt me about her awesomeness, check her out here.
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The title probably evokes the memory of a hellish walk of shame home with your face buried in your hands. Maybe it was beer goggles, or the selfless act of a wingman, or something just right with the way the moon lined up with a whimsical heart to evoke making not the best choice. Even though this is not my situation (you whores*), the emotions are similar with how I feel the morning after a concert.
In my normal pattern, the days after a concert come with a letdown. The excited feeling of “what could be” is replaced with the sad pit in my stomach of it being all over. It has no reflection on what was because The Airborne Toxic Event road trip was pretty freakin’ awesome. The ladies delivered a good time and we took home a ton of booty. (Swag, not ass, pervert.) What more could I have wanted? Well, good hair is a given. I don’t think I need to remind anyone about how I looked at the end of the night. But the feeling of blue has more to do with mourning the passing of the moment more than wishing it would’ve been something different.
Sure, I would’ve enjoyed it if Mikel agreed to have a sit-down to complete an interview for the blog about writing. Of course in that fantasy, he realizes we have so much in common we must become best friends. Soon he would be commenting on my FB statuses and I’d be receiving his drunk texts from every city he hit. (Back to gutter thinking again, huh?) Do I really think this was a possibility if I could rewind time a week? In the rational side of the brain, no. In my emotional dreamland where everything goes my way, why not? But knowing I can’t go back in time, does this mean I would’ve been better off to not have the experience at all? Because if there were no concert, there would be no letdown.
Is this what I have to look forward to in my quest to become an agented writer? The mantra of “work really hard and it will happen” is used daily to keep myself moving forward to my goal of finding the best agent. Would the same letdown creep into that fantasy as well? What if the excitement I’m building up is way more than the actuality of having an agent? Being on submission? Being published? But then I read success stories like this and this. They show me the letdown fear is crazy. Also, that I’m being crazy. They remind me about the excitement of completing the one thing you’ve worked your ass off for, regardless of what comes after. Because the reality is the after is resetting, with new goals and starting to work hard again.
It will take a few days for my heart to catch up to my head and come back into reality. When it does, the hunger to find another concert will be back in my belly. Because music is like writing to me; they are both a passion. The fear of the letdown will be forgotten because I am smart enough to know that a life without having dreams and goals is the biggest letdown of all.
*For those of you who don’t know me personally, I only call peeps “whore.” This is only a term of endearment in my life. Please take no offense.
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I was fortunate to see TATE a couple years ago in Seattle. The venue was small and I was close to the stage. Where are my awesome pictures, you ask? Well, Hubs and I had the argument before I left on my business trip about which one of us should have the camera. I wanted to document a once in a lifetime opportunity and he had a hiking trip through the Pacific Northwest woods in search of Bigfoot. (Yes, I’m totally serious.)
“It would be just my luck that I would run into him and not have the camera to document it,” he said. When I caved thinking it wasn’t worth the fight, I had no idea I would be four bodies from the stage. I certainly never dreamed the band would come down after the show and thank their fans for attending. So when that did happen, all I had was my crappy cell phone. Worse yet, I was well behind the current technology with my P.O.S. Razor flip phone and therefore have the crappiest pics you could image. See for yourself:
When I was lucky enough to talk with Anna the hot violinist to get a picture with her, the first shot was so fuzzy you couldn’t make it out. Swallowing my worry about being a complete loser, I asked if she minded taking another. She graciously posed for another pic. (Yes, this was the better one.)
Now there is nothing I can do about how absolutely terrible I look. The pictures are from after the show where gallons of sweat have frizzed out my hair, ruined my makeup, and generally made me look like hell. (For all you people who say it’s not always that bad, I’ll remind you I fared no better after Toad the Wet Sprocket.)
But I need your help. I want your suggestions of which pose I should do. If by some miracle, I have the chance at one shot with Mikel, what should it look like? Do I go for the normal pose, the one I nickname “the prom picture?” Or do I let my excitement take over with an “oh shizz” face and a pointed finger in his direction? It will be hard to resist lusting after him with my tongue sticking out or should I not fight it? It’s up to you. Here is something I made up to inspire you (and me for that matter):
Please use the comment section to tell me what to do. Remember, I’ve only got one shot!
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I have been to Portland three times in the last four weeks. This last trip lasted five days. This is a big deal considering there were only two trips made in the previous ten years I’ve lived in Oregon. Each of these business trips were sans children, which means I left the titles of “mother,” “caregiver,” “middle-aged,” “home keeper,” etc. back in my home city limits. Having shed the responsibilities of these titles, I was re-invented into my alternative persona of “Urban Girl.”
When I was seventeen and prepping for college, I bought a bit book titled “Jobs in the Music Industry.” I decided I wanted to be an A&R Director. If you are not familiar with this job, it’s like proclaiming “I’m going to be a princess” or “astronaut” or “President.” Sure some people hold the title, but it requires a lot of work and persistence. Two things I didn’t have when I was seventeen. But when I imagine myself as Urban Girl, this is her job. In the last couple years, it’s morphed into writer, but you get the gist. She has a cool career that takes her to awesome places.
Portland brought out Urban Girl. She walks across the street before the red hands turns to a green guy. Each night, she enjoys expensive dinners without regard to the total at the bottom of the check. With the dinner there is a glamorous cocktail (no Cosmos, but I did have a Frozen Blood Orange Drop) and sometimes followed up by a glass of wine. Her hair doesn’t fear Portland rain because she’s tamed her naturally curly hair with high-end product. Urban Girl wanders the streets of downtown without any place to go and enjoys looking at the buildings’ architecture in an inspiring way. She doesn’t shy away from adventurous foods and even tried a prune. And of course, Urban Girl speaks Twitter-ese with witty 140-character sayings rumbling around her head.
On my last day, I was confronted with a real Urban Girl. She walked out of her high-rise apartment building in a designer jumpsuit with a sweater wearing small dog at the end of a leash. She looked past me without any regard on her way to the Starbucks at the end of the block. I smiled at her, which she didn’t return, and continued on to the last of my meetings. I sighed with jealously and relief simultaneously. She had her city and I have my real life.
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