08 March 2002 ~ Helena gets spit on by a rockstar, and Helena loves Evergreen...

One has not REALLY been to a rock and roll concert until one finds herself smashed up against the stage with people humping her from all directions. One has not REALLY been to a rock and roll concert until one is sharing body fluids with a rockstar and punching people.

*beam!*

Helena Thomas has been to a rock and roll concert!

We'll start at the beginning, with me getting separated from my friends (Louise and her boyfriend) after going to the bathroom in the Showbox in downtown Seattle. For awhile, I stood with some frat boys who were saying things like: "Horns [trumpets, specifically, in this case] are for assholes," and "Heh heh! What are you, a fucken homosexual?"

At some point during this chaos, I made the acquaintance of two very short people, named Josie and Pat, who were griping about tall people always standing in the front. I said, "Yeah, somebody really needs to kick that blonde guy's ass!" (Said blonde guy was like, six-foot-eleven and standing DIRECTLY in the center, DIRECTLY in front of the stage...) Josie, who was like, four inches tall, asked if she could bum a cigarette, and the three of us then formed a union of short people, even though I stood head and shoulders above my new friends. "Down with the tall people!" was our battle-cry; the two of them wormed their way up to the front, grabbed my hand, and pulled me with them. Eventually, some shoving got me slammed up against the stage, where I could no longer distinguish my own body parts from those of the people around me. Think of sex. Think of sex with lots and lots and lots of clothed strangers. It's a good thing they were clothed, or about 500 people would have left that concert pregnant. THAT is a rock and roll concert.

Now, I've been to a couple of rock and roll concerts in my short life so far. Or so I thought. My first "concert," was James Taylor when I was seven, then Dire Straits at eleven, then Roxette (shut up, I fucking LIKE them), Genesis, Def Leppard, Aerosmith, Indigo Girls (twice), Tori Amos (four times), and Garbage. And 764-HERO last summer, even though nobody outside of Washington has ever heard of them. There's also a chance I saw Judy Collins one time, but I can't really remember.

[And you know, for as lame as they are, Def Leppard probably kicked the asses of every one of those other bands as a bunch of dudes who really, really loved what they were doing... So next time you feel like insulting crappy pseudo-metal, remember that Def Leppard may be one of the ONLY bands to have ever actually ROCKED Binghamton, NY.]

Anyway, yeah. Those are the rock shows I've been to. Unless you count Yolk, which I don't, because I've had drinks with the guys from Yolk, and one of them gave me a ride home once, so they still don't count as rockstars... I'm sorry; I can't think of you as a rockstar if you know where I live. Except Norman, but Norman is a well-concealed rockstar. Norman is my secret rockstar; don't tell him I told you.

Okay, I'm totally off the subject.

So the short people, Josie and Pat, had dragged me up there to the VERY front. I had my hand ON the stage for most of the night, and, all apologies to Def Leppard, it's REALLY hard to beat that. At EVERY concert I've been to in my LIFE, I've had a nice cozy place to sit if I wanted, and you had to use binoculars at some of them to see the rockstars. Standing immediately under Dr. Isaac Brock, lead singer of Modest Mouse, I was able to get a pretty good view of his tattoos, the buttons on his shirt, the grubbiness-factor of his shoelaces, and the hygienic and cosmetic qualities of his fingernails. I did look to see if he had visible nosehair, too, so I could report back to my faithful readers that I was close enough to see nosehair; alas, Dr. Isaac is a pretty well-scrubbed, well-trimmed rockstar.

Who CARES, Helena? He's just some freakin' guy...

Yeah, yeah, I KNOW that! But this particular freakin' guy is actually well-known enough so that he's got a small section devoted to his CD's in Music City, in Binghamton, NY. And yes, the short girl, Josie, insisted that Modest Mouse was no big deal because all the guys had gone to her high school. But they ARE a big deal, because folks all over the world have listened to their music. It's an extension of falling for tourist-trap stuff, really. You want to be able to say, "Yeah, I've seen the leaning tower of Pisa," and you also want to be able to say, "Yeah, Dr. Isaac sweated on me."

Yes, it's stupid and trendy and a little pathetic to go kind of apeshit over seeing somebody quasi-famous from a very close distance. But whatever. It's still INTERESTING. Remember when I had this fixation with "meeting a band," because all of the people I worked with had met somebody famous and bragged about it all the time? Same idea. I'd really RATHER know one or two genuinely beautiful people than lots and lots of rockstars who will never know where I live, but hey: ya take what you can get. And the lead singer in question, Dr. Isaac Brock, at one point appeared to spit toward a girl who kept calling out -- for TWO hours! -- "Isaac, Isaac, you're so sexy! So sexy! Sexy Isaac!" The spit, or what appeared to be the spit, landed on me. Ew. But what the hell; what a great thing to bring home to tell your online journal!? "I GOT SPIT ON BY A ROCKSTAR."

* * * * * * * * * * *

The weird thing about Washington is that nobody CARES about rockstars anymore. SO much music has come out of this area that nobody really gives a shit anymore. If you went to high school here, you probably went to high school with somebody who is now a rockstar. Or who will be a rockstar in the next few years. I was marvelling about this phenomenon on the phone with my friend Fletcher one day, who was expounding on his favorite Seattle-based band, whom he'd fallen in love with as a teenager in Mississippi. Norman, who was sitting next to me, grinned and said, "Yeah! I know those guys! I played with them a couple of times!" WEIRD.

It's a small world. And famous people really only matter if they're actually pretty cool.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It began snowing as we left Seattle. The snow melted as soon as it hit the ground. The temperature was fluctuating between 32 and 33 degrees, and the slush was expending most of its energy deciding whether or not to freeze on the roads. The boy driving the car was from Virginia, or Washington DC or someplace where it snows once every four centuries. And Seattle has like, four snowplows for the entire city. (Seriously, seriously, Tacoma only has ONE snowplow; I'm not sure about Seattle. But they have more than that in Raleigh, for gahd's sake! What're these people THINKING?)

A bad combination. We drove at approximately five miles an hour from SeaTac to Fife. How far is that? I don't know. But it gets awfully boring...

Still, having been in QUITE a serious car-wreck with somebody who'd never driven in snow before, I'm NOT going to be the first to stand up and say, "For gahd's sake, would ya pick up the fucken PACE a little?" NOT all drivers are as fluent in the language of snowy roads as, say, my parents, or Aaron. It took a long, long time to get back to Oly.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Enough about rockstars and Seattle.

It has been a very, very, VERY good week on almost all fronts.

I must admit: I'm absolutely, completely, totally, horribly sick of the program I chose for Winter quarter. It's called Christian Roots, and it's just NOT doing much for me. Rather, it's done a couple of things for me: honed some of my bullshit skills, namely. I feel like I'm completely dishonoring myself when I write papers for that class. I feel like I'm dishonoring my classmates when I write comments on THEIR papers during writing seminars, because I know they're just bullshitting too. I feel like emitting a low growl everytime my seminar leader utters the term "intellectual journey," "intellectual experience," or what-have-you. Sometimes I think she has no soul; it's all about improving the MIND. Fuck the mind, man! You can spend all fucken day counting cells in the human fingernail, and by the end of the day, you've got the answer, but is it going to get you to heaven? Is it going to make you excited and inspired? Is it going to help you change the world? Is it going to make your palms itch? Is it going to make you SMILE? Hell no; all you've got in another empty accomplishment, and that's what this class has been for me.

When I am an educator, if anybody leaves my classroom without itchy palms, I will know I am not doing something right.

Anyway, so I'm not at all happy with my class, but that's okay, because it ends in a week, and then there's Spring Break (ohhh, perhaps I will visit Portland!) and THEN!

Then I am registered for a class I am going to freaking LOVE.

I went to the academic fair the other day, because there were a couple of classes I wanted to ask about. I wanted to meet the professors and talk about the classes, because dammit, I'm here to LEARN something, and get myself interested in some new stuff, not to feed answers to somebody and to hone my bullshitting skills. I wanted to make sure I could find a class that would take me, even if I wandered up to the professor and asked, "Um, do you expect me to bullshit you? Because I consider that greatly beneath my dignity, and I won't do it... So if you've got any sort of bullshit on your syllabus, send me away now."

I checked out the first program that had sort of intrigued me. The professor made my palms itch. I showed him my book and told him my secret name. He grinned, his eyes all lit-up, and gave me his email address. A cute boy behind me with pretty brown eyes and long, long pretty brown hair turned to me and asked, "Is this for REAL? Seriously, this cannot possibly be as cool as it sounds!"

I grinned at the cute boy with the pretty hair. Both of us left with smiles on our faces. I opted not to go to any of the other tables at the academic fair; this was just too awesome.

So! The program I've signed up for: Student-Originated Studies: Consciousness Studies

A young man asked the professor: "Um... it sounds like this program could kinda... well, like you could kinda blow it off, and get credit for not doing much of anything...?"

And the professor replied: "Well, if people want to do that, that's THEIR problem. But I think that if you tell somebody they can study whatever they want, they're more likely to learn a lot more."

YES! Awesome! Freaking AWESOME! My palms are STILL itching.

I kind of grinned at the pretty-hair boy on my way out of the room. He kind of grinned back. I felt like kissing him. Hell, I felt like kissing everybody! Instead, I just skipped off to dinner.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Handed in two submissions for the school's literary magazine, "Slightly West" this morning. It's been a long time since I've even considered publishing anything, and I think I've only submitted three or four things to ANYTHING in my entire life. But I like my work; I picked some of my best stuff. Besides, I love "Slightly West" (it's in the bathroom with the zines...), but it's really in need of some help...

* * * * * * * * * * *

I have to go get some food now; I haven't eaten anything decent for the past few days. Everytime I get hungry, something distracts me, thrills me, and keeps me distracted long enough so that I forget I'm hungry and the cafeteria closes. Hell. Not today, I say!

Love,
~Helena*