F*ck us and our flashbulbs

That was the theme for my and Sam’s journey to 3rd and Lindsley in Nashville, TN. Sigh, that now epic journey for two American girls to relish in and swoon over the beautiful voices of two British boys – Sam Bradley and Bobby Long.

Admittedly we did, as did every other teenage to twenty-something female, originally become familiar with the musical talents of Bobby and Sam B only post-Twilight era. These two boys’ lives have forever been altered due to the infamous success of their equally scrumptious friend, Robert Pattinson, and his use of their songs in the Twilight movie. Regardless of our introductions, however, we are now forever bound to these two talents purely for their innate worth in music, good looks, and British accents.

Thus, when Sam (the friend) and I discovered that Sam B (the talent) and Bobby would be bringing their fine selves to Nashville, we rushed to assure our seats with the rest of the hormone-driven, culture-starved female masses longing to be serenaded by the likes of two Brits. We bought our tickets, we waited with bated breath, and finally, last week we made the five hour road trip to meet our destiny.
Commence ridiculous fan-girls.

Yes, as shamed as I am to admit it, my dear girl, Sam, and I unquestionably morphed into teenage, musician-stalking fan-girls. This is getting ahead of myself though; let me take you to the beginning of our trip so as not to leave out even one detail of absurd behavior…
Now don’t get me wrong, we were giddy from the beginning. However, in the beginning the giddiness was kept in check. Through the five hour drive and stops for coffee and lunch and bathroom breaks and coffee again, and even upon arrival to Nashville and through a meal of bar food on Music Row – the giddiness was kept in check. Not until later in the night was it fully unleashed. I blame the alcohol.

Let me take a moment though to express just how talented and beautiful these two songwriters truly are: Sam Bradley comes out on stage with a laid-back and vibrant air about him. You can just feel his excitement to be there playing for people who appreciate his music. In direct compliment to Sam B’s outgoing ways, Bobby Long is diffident and nervous, keeping to himself before he goes on and occasionally letting out a bit of a giggle as he stumbles over some lyrics. Undoubtedly, these artists have a promising future ahead of them; hopefully, one in which we will all have the opportunity to bear witness to their passion and talent for music.

OK, back to my and Sam’s foolish debauchery.

We arrived at 3rd and Lindsley where the show was to take place, and start out the night by looking for the bathroom but stumbling into the dressing room, where we proceed to become very well acquainted with the two men of the night…No, unfortunately that’s a lie. We were looking for the bathroom and we did happen upon the dressing room, however we were not yet brave enough (probably, and luckily, due to the lack of liquid-courage at that early stage of the evening) to 'accidentally' fall into the dressing room door… ah well.We proceeded to fold ourselves into the only square foot of available space (stealthy disregarding the “No standing” signs), which just happened to position us strategically beside the bar, and directly in front of the stage. Sam then proceeded to pound back Corona after Corona. After Corona. Unluckily for my liver, every time Sam needed a new beer, she deemed it appropriate that I also received a new whiskey and diet. Thus, the ridiculousness began…
Sam Bradley is the first to bring his extraordinary self onto stage and give the crowd a fulfilling performance. All is relatively calm in my and Sam’s square foot throughout his show. Only at one point do I cry out, “Play ‘Soho Whores’!” To which Sam B replies, “That’s my final act! You don’t want me to finish up do you?!” And then he makes a bit of a perverted comment about ‘finishing up,’ and we all have a good laugh.

Please bear witness to the worshipping cries of fan-girls:

Now it is Bobby Long’s chance to wow the crowd with his charm and talent.
But first, Sam and I decide that we need to rush outside to where he is waiting to go on stage, and beseech the poor boy for a photo. To do so, Sam (my asthmatic friend) and I decide that we should pretend to be smokers.
Sam (to random smoking fan-girl): Hi, can we bum a cigarette off of you please? Neither one of us brought smokes tonight because we’ve been desperately trying to quit…obviously to no avail.Random smoking fan-girl: Sigh and eye-roll. (Hands Sam a cigarette.)
Me (in the background): Giggle. Giggle.Neither Sam nor I smoke normally; oh, but we do tonight. Yes, Sam is a trooper, taking a couple of tar-filled inhalations even whilst the asthma clutches at her throat.

We then get the object of our affection in our scopes and zero in.
Me: Hi, I’m really sorry but can I get a picture w/ you? (Obviously I am lying – I’m not sorry, I’m in full-fledged fan-girl mode.)
Bobby (pacing nervously and adorably): I’m about to go on. I’m just really nervous and excited. I’ll get a picture w/ you after the show; I promise.

Yeah, you can bet we will hold him to that one...
After the show, he walks out the door in front of me.
Me (as I unabashedly grab his arm): You promised to take a picture w/ me! (As you read this, picture the devil bursting forth from my throat as I claim my rights to this photo and you will have an inkling of the intensity with which I spoke these words.)
Bobby (a bit confused): Huh? Uh, yeah OK.I shove my camera at Sam and go by Bobby’s side to have our pic taken.
Sam: Umm, excuse me!
Sam protests not being in the pic. So we all get side to side and Sam sticks out her arm for what is sure to be a magnificent self-portrait of us. The only prob is that Sam is about 5 foot nothing, thus her arm doesn’t extend out quite far enough.
Bobby (in reaction to the close-up photo shoot): Woah..that’s close.
Me (as I take the camera from Sam so I can take the pic): Here, let me take it; I have go-go-gadget arms. (It’s true, I do. And yes, I did say this to a famous person…)
I attempt to take the pic. It doesn’t take. I am very confused and mumble something about my lame camera, to which Bobby says something in his delicious accent that unfortunately prevents me from deciphering half of every sentence he speaks.

(Please excuse the French exclamation.)

I think I fix the camera and turn it around for one more go.
Me: Real quick, let’s try again.Camera: Click
Success! Bobby walks away from us relieved. Sam and I turn the cam to see the pic, barely containing our excitement…and then we crack up laughing. Here’s why:

Obviously we will have to trouble him for another try.

So, we wait in line w/ all of the other (sober) fan-girls.
Let me just step back and explain something quick: I emphasize the fact that the other fan-girls are sober because, well, Sam and I are not. And from the stares that we receive throughout the evening, we believe that said fan-girls think we are an atrocity to the performers, their talent, and the fact that they are gracing us w/ it. But whatev, if they can’t have a good time, that’s their prob.

Anyways, as I wait in line for our next photo shoot, Sam goes back in for another round of drinks, coming back w/ a whiskey for me, a beer for her, and a beer for Sam B. Then she drops Sam B’s beer. It shatters on the concrete patio and all the fan-girls turn w/ the hatred of a thousand demons and stare w/ daggers flying from their eyes, aimed for our hearts.

We happen to think it’s pretty damn hilarious.

Finally we get to Bobby, for our 3rd photo attempt.
Me (thrusting my CD at him): Here, will you sign my CD case? But sign the back, not the front; cause your face is pretty. (His face was on the front of the CD cover, and very pretty btw.)
Sam, in an exemplifying display of our class, has him sign her empty Corona bottle. And we successfully get a picture.

On to Sam Bradley. We effectively maneuver our way through the fan-girl hoard to him.
Sam: Can you sign my Corona bottle? Oh, and I bought you a beer…but I’m really drunk and I dropped it. AND THEN I GOT GLASS IN MY FINGER!Sam B: Uh oh, you did? Somebody call a doctor! (Read this w/ a British accent to get the full effect.)
Me: Will you sign this empty whiskey glass? (Again, a display of our class; in our defense, we had no other sign-able objects. And at least we didn't have them sign our chests.)
Sam: Yeah, OK…So you bought this glass, right?
Me: Right, yeah of course… Hey wait! You have to put my name! ‘To Stacey!’ Oh! And you should put ‘To Stacey, my love.’Oh yes, Sam Bradley signed my stolen whiskey glass w/ “To Stacey, my love.”

And thus concluded our evening w/ Sam Bradley and Bobby Long.

Of course, we couldn’t let our evening end there; I mean, we had to grace Music Row with our presence, right? So we proceeded to Music Row to dance with lots of cowboys and in general, have everyone and the angels laugh at us.
One particular couple was graced w/ an extra morsel of our presence. The boy was very cute (as was the girl to her credit) so of course I decide that we need to mess w/ him. So I go over and grab his butt – full-on booty-grabbage, both hands, both cheeks. Then Sam goes for the one-handed grab. Then the g/f shoots us some of those too-familiar daggers...so we go and give her high-fives.

Back at the hotel we decide that we need to order 3-course meals of garlic bread, spaghetti w/ meat balls, and salad, at 3:30am. Half an hour later the food comes. Sam answers the door, pays them, and passes back out. The sweet fragrance of Italian cuisine awakes me; I nudge Sam awake, hand her a fork and begin chowing down with a vengeance. And with my hands. I’m eating spaghetti w/ meatballs w/ my hands. Sam finishes hers and passes back out; I power on to the garlic bread and eat a family of four’s worth.
The next morning, Sam reported that she kept waking up every 5 minutes. She would see me eating garlic bread, pass out again, wake up and I’m still going at it, think how it’s not fair and that she wants some bread and then pass out again. Whatev, her and the family of four can starve.
We got 30 minutes of sleep, then drove the 5 hours back to Indianapolis so I could make my tattoo appointment the next day...


Oh, and p.s. The theme for our trip, “F*ck us and our flashbulbs,” is an adaption from a Kings of Leon song – look up the lyrics. We decided it was a great song and that we would sing it very loudly everywhere we went. Including yelling/singing “F*ck you and your flashbulubs” w/ the windows down and sunroof open, as we parked directly in front of a quaint cafe in Broadripple…more nasty stares and daggers from the patrons eating on the patio. We think quite a number of them gave themselves a whiplash.

P.P.S. I want to apologize to any of you who read the entire length of this post, got to the end, and thought, 'That's it? That's the story?' ...I'm pretty sure you had to be there to fully grasp the hilarity of it all. And alcohol while you were there would prob help as well.


WTF?! Free tics to KOL?! OMG!!!!

It's official, my day has been made, thanks to a combination of the fabulous boys of KOL, my bf, Sam, and her deliciously kind mama who accomplished something that every parent should strive to do at least once in their parenting life: She bought her daughter (aka Sam) and a friend (aka Me) 6th row concert tickets for an amazingly dirty and delectable band (aka Kings of Leon). Sixth row concert tickets in front of the band's amazingly delectable bass guitarists, Jared Followill.
Now, if you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the Followill boys through their innovative melodies and shrewd lyrics, please, allow me to introduce you: http://www.myspace.com/kingsofleon.
These, my dear reader, are not only astonishingly talented musicians, these are artists concerned with the prosperity of their fans. Artists who are willing to share lyrics about their own debacles for the sake of educating listeners about the heart, relationships, and life. AKA love, sex, and rock and roll.
For example, pay close attention to the lyrics in "Soft" and kindly keep them in mind the next time you try to seduce that fair maiden with your stoned and drunken charms. And if you ever find it difficult to restrain those sexual urges without the proper protection in place, simply call to mind the infamous "Pistol of Fire." On a more sedated note, take a second in those hard times when you've got to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and sing a couple lines from "Cold Desert."
Ah, yes, the men of Kings of Leon are outrageous, talented, and unparalleled.
And I will be there, once again, to witness them at their best. Sam and I will be the two in the 6th row, standing in awe of the beauty and talent that is Kings of Leon.
"Good time to roll on."


sordid affairs

Why do ppl act out the crazies after a night of ill-fated affairs? I mean, really, how much has changed concerning the relationship involved?
And if alcohol played an essential role in the relations, and the memory is vague... then really, how much has changed?

If neither of the involved parties makes an atypical effort towards communication post-romp, is it not safe to assume that mutual feelings, between said parties, have not changed, and that the implicated individuals should go on living life, just as they were?

And besides all of which, why is it routinely assumed that the female party is the one to inevitably act the fool after all is said and done (or as often is the case...not done quite so well)?
In situations comparable to the one described, I have often observed a wonderfully beautiful, smart, and talented female attempting to act civil; all the while, the male is the first to perform the archetypal awkward scene:

She walks in with all of her astounding beauty and grace, calmly strides over and says her hellos to the group of mutual friends. Meanwhile, he immediately and clumsily looks away, even going as far as tripping over the bar stool next to him to find his escape, undoubtedly to the bathroom and its welcoming urinals.

I mean, her beauty is radiating, but not quite so that it should cause one to look away.
Certainly, a brief awkward encounter is expected after such an inopportune escapade; but one that the female was well prepared to barrel past via witty commentary.
What happened to a couple civil jokes, a clap on the back, and a mutual understanding that, although entertaining, such alcoholic urges should never again be pursued by the two parties?
But once the aforementioned male party makes the unfortunate first move of ducking his head and slithering away, he is automatically calling forth all of this unnecessary awkwardness. And thus, suddenly there is a big fat pink elephant in the room that just shit in the lovely girl's drink.
Now tell me (And her, please.), how is she supposed to recover after such a move? No witty comment could easily or sufficiently clear the air after a stink like that.


i heart my brother

I was looking at the PostSecrets from this past week and came across this guy:

Reminds me of my big brother. He's always been rather protective of me, his innocent, bambi-eyed little sister; and I don't think I've ever understood it. I've definitely never understood it when he rambles on about how he would "have to hurt" anyone who ever messed w/ me. Probably, I've thought it all a bit ridiculous and testosterone-driven.
But I'm lucky - I've got the best big bro in town. Sorry if yours is good, he's still not as cool as mine.

P.S. Heart your face, big brother!


Blog uno.

Allow me to introduce myself:
I'm a grad student. At the end of this tedious strife for a degree I will be a scientist.
That was me - laughing at the fact that the title of "scientist" could one day be applied to my individual. Haha

I'm mid-middle aged. I'm not quite old/gettin' up there yet, but not quite young. I'm more in that place of limbo where you're not certain what "age-appropriate" means anymore. You know, age-appropriate dress, age-appropriate behavior, age-appropriate language ... blah blah blah. I'm thinking that I fall into the "inappropriate" category more often than not.

I'm also a yoga instructor and running coach of sorts. However, these two vocations don't trigger laughter in me..they make me smile.

I'm not career-oriented. Zero orientation going on here.
Prob more accurate to say negative orientation going on.
I'd say I'm more... life-oriented. Ha, yeah, I like that. Of course it makes me sound like a complete hippie..ah well.

And this brings me to an explanation for my blog:
I was filling out the profile info and came to "Occupation". Scrolling through the choices my thought process went something like this: 'Boring, boring, boring, eww, ugh, lame.' And that's when I came to the choice of "Not Specified." Now this I like. Why do I need to be specified? Whatev, I won't be specified. Check out me, stickin' it to the man and going with "Not Specified." So now that's my username. And my blog title "Ambivalent" goes along the same line of thinking.
Plus I hate coming up w/ things such as usernames and blog titles, so each of these fits quite nicely for that reason as well.

Essentially, I find being a pseudo-scientist (Pseudo because I have yet to graduate, the second time.) quite mundane most of the time. And very hard to focus on.. For example: right now I'm blogging at my scientist-desk rather than science-ing at my scientist-desk.
Oh, and p.s. there's an adorable boy still retaining his new-car-smell in my office building; and cute boys never help to generate productivity.. Nor do blogs..