Category Archives: family

Thanks, Autocorrect

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On Friday, I received the following text from my dad:

Dad: You failed me.

My heart sank into my stomach when I read it.  I’m very close to my family but we’ve had our share of clashes this year, so when I read it, I immediately thought, I must have done something wrong again.

I texted back:

Me:  What do you mean, Daddy?

I waited nervously for a couple of minutes. Then the phone rang.  It was my dad, and he was laughing.  I had accidentally dialed him about ten minutes before, so he had meant to text me “You dialed me.”  But Autocorrect made some assumptions and decided to send another message, instead.

Thanks, Autocorrect!

My Brother is Officially a College Graduate

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Yesterday, my brother graduated from college. Now for a lot of people, graduating from college is not a surprise; it’s expected. My graduating from college was as predictable as watching the sun set every day. I always liked school and was a fairly decent student, so I never imagined my future without having a college degree.

Not my brother.

Ever since my brother was little, he did not like school. At all.  Even in kindergarten, he would beg my mom not to let him go.  He was very disinterested in things like deadlines and assignments.  And once he figured out the social aspects of school, forget it.  My parents learned to lower their expectations with his grades.  One time I brought home a low B in economics, and my dad asked me, “What happened?” But with Patrick, I think they were just relieved when he passed every year.

But here’s the thing – I’m fairly certain that if you gave us each an IQ test, I would test as having an average intelligence, but my brother?  He’d be borderline genius/Mensa level, guaranteed.  He’s so ridiculously smart, so much smarter than I could ever be.  And I think that’s partially why he never cared about school – he was never really challenged. He was bored. If Patrick liked a class and was challenged, like computer programming, he did really well and would make A’s.

The whole time Pat was in college, it was easy to see that he did not want to be there.  He nearly dropped out a couple of times.  Last year was the closest call, but my mother managed to convince him to wait one more year. And he did.  I’m proud of my brother for many things, but I’m especially proud that he persevered and got his diploma.  He stuck it out and got a Bachelor’s degree in business and Management Information Systems.

This morning, my parents and I were in a state of shock.  When I got the program this morning, I turned to the College of Business page and looked at the list to see my brother’s name. It was surreal seeing his name there.

While we were waiting this morning for him to go on stage, some thank you videos from the graduates were playing to keep the audience entertained.  Then Pat’s popped up.  He thanked my parents and me for always supporting him.  Tears were shed.  Then I watched him filing in with the other graduates and felt so, so proud.  When they called his name on stage, my heart swelled.  He did it.  He really did it.

When we were growing up and my parents wanted to congratulate us for a big accomplishment, they would wake us up by playing Queen’s “We Are the Champions” (which partially explains why I love Queen so much).  My dad played it this morning for Pat, and I am posting it here in his honor.

Congratulations, dude. You did it.  I am so, so proud of you.

What Are We Really Celebrating?

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When I was a little girl, I would go over a friend’s house and see an inordinate amount of presents under their tree while on Christmas Day, Pat and I would get one or two presents.  As a child, I couldn’t help wondering why some children had a lot of gifts under their tree, and we didn’t.  I didn’t understand at the time that we didn’t have a whole lot of money, and that my parents wanted us to celebrate the spirit of the season instead of focusing on material wealth.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become very appreciative of the way I was raised.  My parents never defined life by how much material wealth we did or didn’t have.  Instead,  they emphasized that family always comes first, followed by education.  This attitude has really affected my life.  I really love the holidays because it’s all about spending time with my family and friends.  I don’t get stressed out buying gifts for a bunch of people I don’t care about. I only buy gifts for my family.  Not even my closest friends and I exchange gifts.  We all know that we love each other; we don’t have to buy each other gifts to prove it.  Spending time together during the holidays is all we need.

I am writing this post because I’m completely disgusted by the rampant materialism and commercialism that has consumed this country.  What an embarrassment it is to log into Youtube and see ridiculous videos of people acting like monsters at a Walmart, tearing up displays because something is on sale.  Pepper-spraying everyone because you want something?  Seriously?  Black Friday-type sales really bring out the worst in humanity, and I completely dissociate myself from these people.

Yesterday, my friends, brother, and I Skyped with Tap’s sister, a writer who travels the globe.  She is currently in Turkey, and she said that while the news was reporting serious issues from other countries, it focused on Black Friday for the United States.  Is that really what we want to be?

I had an amazing day yesterday.  Tap’s mom hosts a belated Thanksgiving every year – yesterday was our third with them.  Tap’s mom, like my mom, is European and an amazing cook.  We then had our second-annual Songwriting Showcase, where we split into teams, compose a song in two hours, and then perform it for Tap’s parents. Afterwards, we jammed while Tap’s parents watched.  It was such a beautiful evening.

After we left Tap’s house, Pat and I went to jam with some musician friends of his.  These guys are ridiculously talented, and I include my brother in that category. You guys don’t know how intimidating it was to walk into that room and listening to them all play – just two years ago, Pat and I would go out to their shows.  And now I was expected to jam with them?  They are on a whole other level than I am (more like 20 levels above mine), but they were really encouraging with my contributions.  It was such a fun night, and several hours of jamming just flew by.

As I watch people get stressed out over the holidays, camping out in tents so they can be the first in line for some ridiculous deal, I can’t help feel like they are missing out on what makes life really great.  They are celebrating commercialism and materialism – what empty causes to be celebrating.

The holidays are really about celebrating life, love, and happiness with your family, closest friends, amazing food, and good music. That’s what life is all about. I’m sad that people see these holidays as a way to spend money or to get gifts from people because, damn, they are really missing out.

Thank You!

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I really wanted to dedicate a post to everyone who helped me complete my marathon. As you can tell, it really takes a village to run a marathon. There’s just no way you can complete the training without the love and encouragement of supporting people in your life.

I thank -

-My lovely blog friends (YOU GUYS!) for always being so encouraging
-All the waterstop volunteers and supporters for both the training runs and the actual race.  Wow, y’all are amazing.
-Dave Grohl – I have never met you, but you have changed my life. I couldn’t have finished my run without your music to keep me going.
-The No Excuses running group for being so motivating and positive, especially on that last mile
-The TRC running group – I cannot wait to start training with you all for February
-USA Fit – I met so many awesome, encouraging people there.  You all made waking up at 5:45 on a Saturday morning something to look forward to! A special thanks goes out to Coach Jodi, for being so motivating and awesome.
-Tap, Shark, Conrad – I love you guys.
-To my “adopted grandfather” Terry, for all the running advice over the years
-My Zia Lucia, Uncle Kenny, Tony, Kenny, and especially my Amanda – I love you all.
-To Patrick, who always had something funny and motivating to say about my training (“I went to war running a mile the other day.”)
-To my sweet Mom, who always supported me no matter what
-And finally, to my dad.  I wouldn’t be running today if you hadn’t taken me out for that three mile run back in July 1992.

My Brother Patrick – “Sincerity”

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My brother Patrick recently performed at his first open mic last Saturday.  He put on an awesome show, performing songs from John Frusciante, Foo Fighters, REM, Nirvana, Feist, and Offspring (and in true Patrick fashion, he picked songs that were not singles).  He was so brave to be up there all by himself, with just his guitar, but he pulled it off with a crowd rapport that belied his inexperience at performing. You can bet that I was the proud, dorky sister up in front taping the entire show.

Pat wrote a song that I think is ridiculously beautiful.  I’m not biased. Ok, maybe a little, but I promise that I would think it’s a great song even if he weren’t my brother.

 

A Regression While Playing Donkey Kong Country

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Jen:            Patrick, I want to play now.
Pat:             Wait, no.  You already died and it’s my turn.  You can’t be changing the rules
like that.
Jen:            But you play this game all the time.  I want to play now.
Pat:             You always change the rules to benefit yourself.
Jen:            No I don’t.
Pat:             Remember when we would play Super Mario World, and you would die, you would restart the game so you keep playing?
Jen:            I don’t know what you’re talking about.  You’ve already played this game
forty-thousand times.  Let me play, you dick.

(We both start struggling over the controller)

Pat:              Mom.
Dad:            Let your sister play, Patrick.

I wouldn’t blame you all if you think this conversation took place sometime between 1994 to 1996, but this conversation I posted above proves that a 27-year-old and her 23-year-old sibling can regress back to their childhood at any time with the proper medium.

Playing on Repeat

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It’s funny how when you’re a kid, you unknowingly start picking up on your parents’ habits. I can’t say that I’ve adopted every one of them.  For instance, both of my parents are front loaders and deal with problems as soon as they occur.  They renew their car registration on time, and basically complete all the boring adult duties as they should.  My brother and I are the opposite.  We are both total procrastinators.  I’ve found that it’s hard to motivate myself without a clear, looming deadline, preferably one that is less than 48 hours away.  As for my vehicle registration….eh.  I’ve gone three months without renewing it before.  My only motivation to getting it renewed was realizing that when I went home to visit, I didn’t want to hear my dad get on my case about it.  (Yay! I’m turning thirty in three years! Isn’t it awesome how grown up I am?)

But one habit I’ve undeniably adopted from my mother is her music listening habits.  Basically, my mother will listen to a song over and over until it’s dead to everyone else around her who is forced to experience the song all three-hundred forty times with her.  When she finds a new group she likes, she quickly becomes a die-hard fan.  My mother recently became a fan of Foo Fighters (my dad is not excited by this development at all and derisively calls them “Foo Foos”).  Meanwhile, my mother shrugs this off by catching up to the level of fandom that took my brother and me nearly three years to cultivate, and plays live versions of the Wasting Light album at dinner.

I can trace my childhood with songs that she listened to.  When I was a toddler, they were the cassette tapes full of Italian songs that my uncle would send my mother to the States.  Years later, those songs would haunt me as an adult, and I’d type in half-remembered Italian phrases into Google, trying to find the names of those songs.  In 1992, my mother started playing the Grease soundtrack a lot.  To this day, “Summer Lovin’” brings me back to third grade, a time when my dad played his Cars Greatest Hits album a lot and played Wolfenstein on his computer, and when my Uncle Kenny was in Virginia for the winter.  When I was in my Hanson phase in 1997, Mom would play their album over and over in the car until one day when my dad said, “I’m sorry guys, I can’t take this anymore,” and hit the eject button.

I didn’t enjoy all the music my mother enthusiastically played on repeat.  In 1993, my mother went through an Air Supply phase.  To this day, if I hear the opening strains to “Lost in Love” on the radio, that shit gets changed within ten seconds.  In the summer of 1996, Mom decided she loved my dad’s Best of Steely Dan album and needed to play it ALL THE TIME, especially when we would drive back from the pool.  The song she loved the most on that album was “My Old School.”  I’m not going to lie, guys, when that CD went missing (I swear to baby kittens that I had nothing to do with the disappearance), I was SO HAPPY BECAUSE I NEVER HAD TO HEAR IT AGAIN.  But the universe ended up winning the struggle on this battle – I now like Steely Dan.  When Tap sings “Reeling in the Years” at karaoke, I smile, and hearing “FM” on the radio reminds me of long summer days of sunscreen and reading marathons in my room.

As I’ve grown more and more into music these past ten years, I’ve wholeheartedly adopted my mother’s immersive approach.  I will love a song so much that I can listen to it twenty times on repeat and not be tired of it.  Entire albums will stay in my car for weeks as I play them over and over again or focus on favorite songs from them.  I had to take a break from Pink Floyd for a long time simply because I had listened to them so much in college.  If I’m going through a rough time, I’ll focus on one artist or band.  Red Hot Chili Peppers brought me out of a challenging experience in 2007.  I listened to a lot of Elton John in 2008 when I was trying to wade through the stress of living in a new city, working a new job, and dealing with the aftermath of a car wreck at the same time.  Late last year, when I was going through my latest disaster with men, I listened to so much Jeff Buckley that if I mention in passing that I’m listening to him now, I’ll get a concerned message from a friend saying, “Are you having guy problems?”

One of my mother’s favorite bands when I was growing up was U2.  I was always indifferent with U2.  I could never embrace them like my mother did and was torn between hating and loving their cloyingly dramatic antics (like Bono’s performance at the 2002 Superbowl Halftime show, when he tore open his jacket at the end of “Where the Streets Have No Name” to reveal an American flag sewn inside – I secretly loved it).  Mom would always put on their Joshua Tree album when she was doing chores.   I can’t remember when she got that album – it was released in 1987 and she must have had it since the early 90s.  It was one of those albums that I grew up listening to without understanding just how good it really was until I went to college.

I recently bought the album and as I listened to it again, I was struck just how amazing it really is.  I don’t think I’ll ever lose the soaring feeling I get when I listen to “Where the Streets Have No Name.”  I always forget how good “Red Hill Mining Town” is until I hear it again.  I think this is one of my new favorites from that album:

The prose in the lyrics is spare but so moving.  The part that really gets to me is, “You got to cry without weeping/Talk without speaking/Scream without raising your voice.”

I’ve had the album for a week and I don’t think I’ve heard it all the way through yet, because I keep stopping on my favorite songs. Like my mother, I play them on repeat.

Life’s Little Gifts

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Hello, my dear three readers.  It’s been a little while, I suppose.  I adore writing in this blog but every so often need to take a step away.

Last week was one of those weeks where I needed to get away.  There wasn’t anything particularly stressful going on at work, but rather infinitesimal, meaningless hardships I had imposed on myself.  It was very nice to take a day off and spend a long weekend with my family and friends.  Plus, I treated myself to something nice.  Looky:

I was really debating buying a new guitar.  I had my classical guitar Aurora, but I had bought it off of amazon.com with a gift card for $40 – the quality honestly was not very good. I’ve been playing my guitar a lot (I think the tips of my fingers on my left hand will be permanently numb) and the sound quality was just starting to hinder my playing. Plus, THE STRINGS WOULD NOT STOP BUZZING. It was just a cheap guitar. I figured with the amount of time I’ve been consistently spent practicing it, a new guitar would not be a frivolous purchase.  I found a decently priced one at Guitar Center.  It is named Virginia.  It’s so pretty and sounds wonderful. And the strings do not buzz.

I’ve given Aurora to my little godsister, Raquel, who is five.  I was playing the guitar with her and teaching her that everytime I pluck the string, I am playing a note.  She seemed to take genuine interest in the guitar.  She would pluck a string, ask, “Am I playing a note?” When I assured her that she was, she would pluck another string, ask me the same question, and so on.

When I returned to work on Monday, refreshed and recharged, I found a little tiny Easter egg filled with jelly beans.  We still don’t know who dropped the eggs off for us.  I suppose all my years of watching Forensic Files and crime shows should have made me suspicious about eating the jelly beans, but whatever.  I ate them, they were delicious, and I did not drop dead of cyanide poisoning.

I got a big shock that same day that my project manager, Liz, was leaving the company to go work somewhere else.  Liz was the person I strove to make happy during the three years I spent working with her on a recently completed project.  I learned a lot from working with her, and the thought of not having her around anymore was strange to think about.

After returning from a meeting, I saw a small card left on my chair.  I opened it, recognizing her handwriting immediately.  The note said how much she had enjoyed working with me, and how I’m a gem and that I should never forget that.  She said I always exceeded her expectations and that if I ever need a job, call her and I’ll have one.  I was stunned by the contents of the note and wondered what I had ever done to receive something so wonderful.  “Duh, Jenny,” you may be thinking, “Obviously you worked hard or else she wouldn’t have written all those nice things.”  But I have a difficult time perceiving my strengths and always focus on my weaknesses. I define myself by the mistakes I’ve made. Perhaps this is why Liz told me that I should never forget that I’m a gem.  I went to find her, and gave her a big hug.  She was cleaning out her office.  I feel like a chapter of my professional life has closed.

I am tired this week because I have been increasing my weekly mileage.  I ran 6 miles on Saturday with my dad, 4.75 on Monday, .5 yesterday (along with a short core workout), and am doing the dreaded hill run (approximately 4 miles) today.  My body craves sleep but I know that what I’m doing will ultimately make me stronger in both body and spirit.

And, if these gifts I’ve received this week weren’t good enough, my dear cousin Amanda and I have started planning the next time we’re going to see each other.

The older I grow, the more I realize that your life shouldn’t be defined by material wealth or money.  It shouldn’t be defined by the mistakes you’ve made.  It should be defined by the time you spend with family and friends, and the time you spend doing something that makes you proud, be it work, running, or plucking away on the guitar.

Life could be full of misery if we let it.  We just have to let the sunshine in as often as we can to make the cloudier days more bearable.

Incessant Nostalgia

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When I went to visit my aunt in Philadelphia last winter (HOW have I not blogged about that trip yet?!), she showed me wonderful old family photos.  She showed this one and it made me especially happy:

This is me (on the right) and my cousin Amanda in Naples, Italy, in October 1993.  It was our uncle’s wedding.  I loved that outfit because my Zia Maria had bought it for me. It made me feel very chic and I wore it all the time until I grew out of it. I didn’t even remember posing for this photo until my aunt showed it to me.

This is me and Patrick with a small handful of our Italian cousins (my mom has seven brothers and sisters, and each of her siblings has anywhere from two to four children.  That’s a lot of cousins).  With the exception of Kenny and Tony (my Philly cousins), I haven’t seen the rest of them in person since the day this photograph was taken.  It’s really strange to think all that time has gone by.  It is the only time in my life I can remember being in Italy, which makes me sad, considering that I’m Italian.  No, not “Italian” like those assholes on Jersey Shore, but really Italian – I have an Italian birth certificate, an Italian mama with a legit accent, and about thirty family members still living there.  I have dual Italian/American citizenship. Do I speak the language? No, I understand it better than I can speak it. (I’m working on it).

Usually people don’t know I am Italian because I do not have the stereotypical features (except for, alas, my nose).  When I was twelve, I had to take an ESL (English as a Second Language) test since I was not an American citizen at that time. It was stupid. I moved to the States when I was eight months old and was making straight A’s, so obviously English was my primary language.  I grew up in South Texas, so everyone else in the cafeteria taking the test with me were Hispanic.  I was literally the only white girl in the room.  One kid looked at me and said loudly, “What language do you speak? Irish?”

The two weeks we spent in Italy were wonderful. I was especially taken with the Mediterranean Sea and Mount Vesuvius.  The videos my dad and uncle took of the trip show me hyper and pointing out Mt. Vesuvius and the Mediterranean Sea every five seconds (how did my parents put up with me?)

This picture of Amanda and me makes me happy for many reasons.  It brings back all those great memories. My favorite, beautiful Italian landmarks are right in the background.  I even look Italian in this picture.  After my aunt had showed it to me, I immediately posted it on Facebook with the caption, “Me and my cousin Amanda in 1993…I can’t believe how little we were!!! (Look at Mt. Vesuvius in the background!)”  My brother commented with, “It’s like 9 year old Jenn time-traveled and added that statement in parentheses.”

I guess I’m rambling because I’m feeling so nostalgic for Italy right now and missing all my relatives I haven’t seen in years.  I miss my Zia Lucia and uncle and cousins.  And I really miss Amanda.  Amanda and I hit it off right away despite not having seen each other since we were kids.  You know when you have a relative and you’re like, “Man, even if we weren’t related, we’d still be friends because you are SO FREAKIN’ AWESOME?” That sums up Amanda pretty well.  I hope she visits me soon.  I want to visit them again, even though that means I’ll have to get on a plane.  (Give me some Xanax and that can happen.)

I like comparing the picture of our younger selves to our more sophisticated selves in New York City.

My family…Italy…New York City…Philadelphia…my heart wants so many things right now.

Dave Grohl Sighting #2 – MTV Woodie Awards

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On Wednesday morning, I woke up exhausted. Despite our jam-packed Tuesday, I was hyped up after arriving home and couldn’t fall asleep without hearing the opening riffs of “White Limo” over and over in my head.  Work went by very slowly, and I left at 2 to pick my brother up.

My brother and I had a really exciting opportunity ahead of us that Wednesday. I hadn’t blogged about it before because I knew the chances of actually getting in would be small, so I didn’t want to jinx myself.  A week before, Foo Fighters were confirmed to play at the MTV Woodie Awards, an awards show that honors college radio music.  This year would be the first the awards would be held in my city, and 850 free tickets were being given away to music fans.  As soon as Nathan told me, I hurriedly put in a request for my brother and me.  In the comments section of the request ticket, I wrote a small blurb how the Foo Fighters changed our lives (true), how Dave Grohl was influential to me and was the reason why I started drumming (true), that Patrick started playing guitar because of him (not true – Patrick had been playing guitar at least 6 or 7 years before we saw them in concert…but I figured that saying otherwise couldn’t hurt our chances), and that seeing them perform even one song would make our year (true).  Tap put in for tickets roughly at the same time I did. Then we had to wait to see if we would be awarded tickets

Later that night, I received an email saying that I’d been awarded tickets.  Tap didn’t get tickets and neither did a coworker, so I knew I was very, very lucky.  The catch was that the facility was “overbooked” slightly, and that ticket holders weren’t guaranteed tickets. I knew Patrick and I had to show up early to score a spot in the awards show.

We originally showed up at the venue at three, but no one was there yet, and nobody knew who we were talking about.  We left to get an early dinner.  Since I had nowhere to drive for the next eight hours, I had a margarita with my dinner (and it was very delicious).  We kept checking back at the venue to see if anyone was in line.  The MTV employees didn’t know where everyone was meeting at. We decided to check in the garage one more time to see if people had lined up around 6 o’clock.  Sure enough, there were about ten people waiting. If we hadn’t checked at that time, we would not have gotten in.

We were separated into two lines – priority ticket holders and standard ticket holders. Patrick and I had standard tickets. At the time, I didn’t know how many “priority” holders there would be – I figured maybe 100 people at tops.  And since we showed up so early, I felt our chances of getting in would be reasonably good.  I sent happy texts to my parents, who wanted to be updated on our chances of getting in.

I was wrong.  Throughout the night, as more and more people poured in, it became clear more “priority” tickets were given than standard tickets.  At one point, Patrick estimated at least 500 people had priority tickets.  There was a lot of confusion over who would be let in first and when people would be let in the venue.  I don’t think even the employees knew.  It was frustrating because it was very disorganized.  Even worse, I overheard an employee saying that due to fire code, only 650 people would be allowed in.  The more priority ticket holders showed up, the smaller our chances grew.  I sent sad texts to my parents and Tap. The crowd you see in the picture below is just a small fraction, believe me.

At one point, we were given wristbands and black and yellow towels to wave during the Wiz Kalifa performance “Black and Yellow,” but we still did not get excited.  We waited a total of four hours. Four hours. FOUR HOURS.  We talked to a group of college kids who were waiting in line with us.  Patrick and I complained about the disorganization.  The longer we waited, the more dismal and inappropriate our sense of humor became.  We were going to dark places.  And we didn’t even bother hiding our laughter from people who were strolling in at 9:15, dressed up in ridiculous outfits, and assuming they were going to be let in when people like us had been waiting for hours already.  We were definitely enjoying the schadenfreude of watching their faces as they saw hundreds and hundreds of other people in line.  And you could tell the music fans from the partiers right away. The music fans wore sensible shoes and outfits.  The women showing up to party were dressed in six-inch heels, which I think would be death to wear at a concert.

Finally, groups of priority ticket holders were being lined up. We were told that 500 would be taken from the priority ticket group, then 100 standard ticket holders would be chosen, and then the rest of the pool would be taken from the priority ticket group.  Then we were told that only 75 people would be taken from the standard group.  We watched sadly as more than 500 people were being chosen from the priority group.  As we watched hundreds of ticket holders being let through, we knew that our chances were growing slimmer and slimmer.

Patrick and I were near the very front of the standard ticket line.  When an employee counted us off, we hurriedly left the parking garage we had been waiting in for hours.  People in the standard line started cheering for us.  “I FORGOT WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BREATHE FRESH AIR,” Patrick shouted as we emerged outside.  I felt very excited, though my intuition told me that we weren’t in the clear yet.

Sure enough, while we were going through security, we heard a guard say, “You need to cut the group off.  We have enough.”  I eyed my brother and gestured him to stay close to me.  It was all or nothing – I wasn’t going in without him. I don’t know how many more people behind us were let in until the line was cut off, but it can’t have been too many; I am confident that we were among the very last group of people to be let in.

Once we went inside, I found myself feeling excitement for the first time.  The venue was much smaller than I thought (it looks big on TV but I can assure you it was not), and I realized I shouldn’t have any problem seeing the stage.  Patrick and I went to the left side and found our way to the front without any problem.  The two girls who had been talking to us were whisked away to stand in the very front row, which was really cool.  For the first time in my life, I didn’t care about being on TV or not.  I was just happy to have a chance at seeing my favorite band, even if they were performing just one song.

We had to wait for another hour.  Watching the production behind-the-scenes was moderately interesting, but I was so tired and ready to see the Foo Fighters, who were performing first.  The awards show wasn’t due to start until 11, and we were let into the venue at 10:00. I tried zoning out to make the time go by faster, but it wasn’t working.  I felt like my watch got stuck on 10:33 for another hour. “We’re so close!” Patrick said.  “It’s like running a race,” I responded.  “You could be on the last mile but you’re so tired that the last mile will feel like it’s five.”

Some musicians started showing up, like Matt and Kim, Odd Future, Sleigh Bells, and Wiz Kalifa.  I only found out who they were afterwards – I know a lot more about indie music than I did last year, but that’s still not saying much.

Then we heard, “1 minute to go!” and that’s when my heart started beating in excitement. I gazed out at the stage happily.  The band were behind a backdrop to open the show, but I could hear them warming up with “Owners of a Lonely Heart” (lol).  We started counting down the seconds with the producers like it was New Year’s Eve.  When we counted down to one, we all cheered.  The band started playing the opening riffs of “Rope” and the backdrop lifted to reveal them all.

My view could not have been more perfect. I could see Dave and Taylor perfectly (as a drummer, they are the members of the band I am a fan of the most).  The song seemed to go by very quickly.  I didn’t take any pictures since I just wanted to enjoy the one song they were performing and not worry about my stupid camera. But here’s a video of their excellent performance.

http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:uma:video:mtv.com:632707

And just like that, they were done.  It was five hours of waiting for a five minute performance, but the long wait was worth every second. After that, Patrick and I enjoyed the rest of the show, which was hosted by Donald Glover.  Here’s a picture of his back.

We waved our yellow towels during the Wiz Kalifa performance.  We watched the minor celebrities make presentations (Pete Wentz, who was unrecognizable without his stupid hair, Aziz Ansari, who I’m a fan of, and Liz Lee, that annoying chick from MTV).  The only band I recognized was Sleigh Bells, just because I’m a fan of their song “Rill Rill.” I couldn’t understand what kind of performance they were doing – something with a lot of shrieking.  Noise pop.  Odd Future had a really strange performance involving garden gnomes and shit, but I found myself warming up to them by the end.

After the show, the MTV employees thanked us all for coming, which I thought was really nice.  Patrick and I staggered back across the river, exhausted by the day and not believing what we’d just seen.  When we got home, we watched the show again and caught the back of Pat’s head on TV.  Then, sleep.  We still had another several days of SXSW ahead of us.

It’s hard to believe this was all a week ago.  Sitting in a cubicle is quite a different experience, let me tell you.