I thought I'd feel better after it was all done. I had promised to be myself and enjoy it all and take it all in. But me and my non-eventual existence really just puts a damper on things. Monumental things happened. At once. Goals that I had set for myself half-believingly, half-jokingly; they happened. And I blew it. As I'm writing this I want to be funny, express my sadness, post some pictures and proclaim everything to be "awesome" all at once. But alas, I am Debbie.
I had a brush with immortality. Who knew that $150 would get you so close to the Deftones? A band that I've idolized through the years; And thankfully the only band that my sisters would've allowed me to play in their cars when I was too young to drive myself. Maybe it means absolutely nothing to someone, maybe some hopeful kid in a remote corner of the world knows what I feel. As it turns out, $150 will get you a concert pass to preferred seating, a tshirt, lithograph, laminate and a meet and greet with the band. The date: September 1 of 2010.
As the days came closer I realized I was neck-deep in shit. What have these guys not heard before? What, if any, possible thought could I challenge these guys with?
I have this weird defense mechanism where I react with nonchalantness and indifference to situations that would clearly render me astounded and excited. It may be due to my self-awareness. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so hard on myself in public situations. But I’m pretty much fucked since I’m past “half-way to fifty” and my bad habits would most certainly be passed on genetically to my offspring. My plan of action on the day-of was to 1) be charming, 2) be polite and 3) most importantly, be cool. But I guess somewhere along the way I forgot that I am me, and not some sophisticated, charming, interesting person.
How could I believe for one second that I would not totally cripple myself into an insipid, dorky mute? Or that I would be taken for someone who knows that they are human, as opposed to your typical groupie-type, which I'm sure they appreciate to a certain degree.
As soon as I saw the band marching towards the tables set up for the signing I completely lost interest in seeming eager to meet them. Not because I was un-eager to meet them, but because I don’t like to wear my emotions on my sleeve. In turn, “playing it cool” actually comes off as “playing cold” with a twist of clumsy.
Resuming, I became the spaz who immediately starts nagging at the band for not ever having visited your country for a concert, then talking about another band who I think are cool (which they clearly gave two shits about, can’t blame them), to staring silently in an awkward glow of awe and then drop the fucking limited-edition poster they just signed for me. I then proceeded to call Frank, Sergio, repeatedly, which he clearly is not. I’ve been listening to the fucking band for 12 years now. I know who Frank is! And then, when asked, more than once, “what’s up?” I responded “not much”… And I think this is pretty much where I dug my own grave. Abe just kept repeating “not much, not much”, like the answer didn’t register in his brain because its either a blatant lie or a show if indifference. Then I decided to take a picture with a lackey. A LACKEY! While in the presence of Deftones. Um, let’s see… A cool lackey named Bob? Or Deftones?! Catch my drift? I feel like I need to be kicked in the asshole. By each of the band members.
As much as I enjoyed myself in the aftermath, which I like to call the actual concert, I know that the only reason I would be remembered by them is probably for being the most awkward spaz they have encountered recently. Or realistically I wouldn’t be remembered at all, which would turn out best for us all, I take it.
What I mean is I blew it. But there was no way I could not. I set myself up for one of the most amazing experiences of my life and came up short.
What I mean is I might as well be a metaphoric snail on the leaf of one of the thousands of trees in the middle of the woods in the 14 acres of land of that they own that they use to occasionally go for a round of skeet shooting. What I mean is, exactly, nothing. Hey, at least I didn’t flash my boobs.
I had a brush with immortality. Who knew that $150 would get you so close to the Deftones? A band that I've idolized through the years; And thankfully the only band that my sisters would've allowed me to play in their cars when I was too young to drive myself. Maybe it means absolutely nothing to someone, maybe some hopeful kid in a remote corner of the world knows what I feel. As it turns out, $150 will get you a concert pass to preferred seating, a tshirt, lithograph, laminate and a meet and greet with the band. The date: September 1 of 2010.
As the days came closer I realized I was neck-deep in shit. What have these guys not heard before? What, if any, possible thought could I challenge these guys with?
I have this weird defense mechanism where I react with nonchalantness and indifference to situations that would clearly render me astounded and excited. It may be due to my self-awareness. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so hard on myself in public situations. But I’m pretty much fucked since I’m past “half-way to fifty” and my bad habits would most certainly be passed on genetically to my offspring. My plan of action on the day-of was to 1) be charming, 2) be polite and 3) most importantly, be cool. But I guess somewhere along the way I forgot that I am me, and not some sophisticated, charming, interesting person.
How could I believe for one second that I would not totally cripple myself into an insipid, dorky mute? Or that I would be taken for someone who knows that they are human, as opposed to your typical groupie-type, which I'm sure they appreciate to a certain degree.
As soon as I saw the band marching towards the tables set up for the signing I completely lost interest in seeming eager to meet them. Not because I was un-eager to meet them, but because I don’t like to wear my emotions on my sleeve. In turn, “playing it cool” actually comes off as “playing cold” with a twist of clumsy.
Resuming, I became the spaz who immediately starts nagging at the band for not ever having visited your country for a concert, then talking about another band who I think are cool (which they clearly gave two shits about, can’t blame them), to staring silently in an awkward glow of awe and then drop the fucking limited-edition poster they just signed for me. I then proceeded to call Frank, Sergio, repeatedly, which he clearly is not. I’ve been listening to the fucking band for 12 years now. I know who Frank is! And then, when asked, more than once, “what’s up?” I responded “not much”… And I think this is pretty much where I dug my own grave. Abe just kept repeating “not much, not much”, like the answer didn’t register in his brain because its either a blatant lie or a show if indifference. Then I decided to take a picture with a lackey. A LACKEY! While in the presence of Deftones. Um, let’s see… A cool lackey named Bob? Or Deftones?! Catch my drift? I feel like I need to be kicked in the asshole. By each of the band members.
As much as I enjoyed myself in the aftermath, which I like to call the actual concert, I know that the only reason I would be remembered by them is probably for being the most awkward spaz they have encountered recently. Or realistically I wouldn’t be remembered at all, which would turn out best for us all, I take it.
What I mean is I blew it. But there was no way I could not. I set myself up for one of the most amazing experiences of my life and came up short.
What I mean is I might as well be a metaphoric snail on the leaf of one of the thousands of trees in the middle of the woods in the 14 acres of land of that they own that they use to occasionally go for a round of skeet shooting. What I mean is, exactly, nothing. Hey, at least I didn’t flash my boobs.
Here are some of the best pics of the night. Meet-n-greet and then some of the concert. I'm looking a little on the pale side, might be because there was no blood flowing to my brain. Enjoy as best you can.
I snuck into the venue hours before the concert.
Seconds before Deftones emerged. Still had color in my face.
Frank! Frank, I know who you are, Frank!
Frank, Chino, Abe, Sergio and Stephen (who I wanted to take home, btw).
Frank!
Chino! Cute couple... Sorry Risa, don't kill me! In restrospect, I could've at least asked to see his tattoos up close! (D'oh!)
Abe Fucking Cunningham, master of ghost notes. "Not much, not much..." (Double D'oh!)
Stephen Carpenter! I wish he would've let me have a hit of whatever he was on so I could chill the fuck out! Cool dude, though!
AND YES! BOB! At this point my eyebrows have pretty much vanished from my face. Sigh.
Venue. 
Half a lifetime waiting for this moment right here.
That is EXACTLY how close I was. No zoom.
Chino, covering Franks spot.
Chino, over Frank.
Stephen! I really just wanted to slap on a leash around his neck and take him home! Kawaii!
I didn't spot the infamous Chino sox.
Classic Chino pose.
Tying his shoe-lace... Whatevs.
Root or 7 Words. Not sure. Awkwardness aside, I had shit-tons of fun. I punched a few people in the face, maybe by accident, maybe deservingly. I'm about 96% certain that I had creeped out Stephen and annoyed Chino by the end of the night with my overenthusiastic sing-alongs. In fact, to keep me, the demon, away, Stephen basically fed me his guitar picks. I caught a blue one, in fact.
1 comments:
Debbie you look GORGEOUS! And that sexy man Chinooo omg! hahaha I'll get u another VIP ticket so u can redeem yourself! you HAVE to!
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