Edge of twenty-five (with apologies to Stevie Nicks)

Tomorrow, I turn 25.

When I was still working at The Pitt News, Leslie reviewed a book called Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties. I was still copy editor at the time, and not yet 21, and I thought, "Oh, piffle! These weiners don't know what they're talking about! I can't wait to be 25. I'll be out of college, and living on my own and have a job and life will be awesome."

Ah, the callowness of youth.

I'm having trouble enumerating all the ways I feel deficient in turning 25, deficient in achieving all those mileposts of young adulthood (graduating, getting your first job, having a boyfriend, moving out on your own, the list goes on.) I'm turning 25 and what do I have to show for it? I live at home, I have a shit job, I have no boyfriend and barely any money. My friends are getting advanced degrees, and moving to wonderful, sexy places, and getting married and having babies.

But I am truly lucky to have friends who not just tolerate me but seem to actively enjoy having me around, a lovely if loud and abrasive family, absolutely NO DEBT (seriously, this might be the most important thing to me), and my health. They all indulged me these past few weeks on my berfday divatude/drain-circling despondency. So I'll just say thank you to all the people I've complained to about turning 25 and eat some wings.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

Read this week's The Dubliner with your vomit-catching receptacle at the ready.

The impetus

Since Jojo McSweeney seems to only sorta believe in giving opposing sides of an argument equal time, I feel compelled to post my response to Kyle's letter of Monday, April 10.

A little background: I start my day by breezing into work 45 minutes late (8:45 is the new 8:00), checking my email and reading the three blogs in the column on the right of this page. On Monday morning, I saw Kyle's note about the crazy Art Brut show at Haverford College. Late Tuesday, Joey posts a vituperative response from a Haverfordie who was at the show. So here's my note of Monday afternoon.

Since Kyle called me out, Jojo, I guess I have to respond to his note.

First, nice work on your DJ gig. (The girl that screamed "JOJO!" when you put on Gnarls Barkley? Me.) During Franz Ferdinand's set, I wasn't paying as much attention to the crowd as Kyle was since I was dancing stupidly in my own little "I will attract Alex Kapranos's romantic attentions with only the power of my interpretive dance freakout" world. The crowd did indeed suck, though. No one mustered much enthusiasm for Franz, and I don't know how one would rock out with his cock out to Death Cab. I mean, I saw a girl reading a textbook during Franz's set, OKAAAAAY? Girl, it is SATURDAY NIGHT. Leave that AP calculus shit at HOME.

Behavior like that would surely be more appropriate and expected at Haverford College, right? Oh, I was so very wrong.

Kyle walked right into the basement like he owned the place. Since I'm older and fatter and dorkier than the Havernerds (but I'm not yet a "grup," Joey--I read that New York Mag article too, dude) three officious Haverford kids stopped me and demanded "Tri-co ID! Where's your ID? Do you have Tri-co ID? I wanna see ID!" Oh, I'll give you ID, kids. You need me to go buy another keg for you, too, since I've got five years on most of you? A tip for the hipster doofus Amanda Scheer Demme-lite clone at the door: If someone wants to PAY to come a show in your stinky basement, JUST TAKE THEIR MONEY, MARK THEIR HAND AND SAY THANK YOU. Honey, I may not have gone to your fancy-pants liberal arts college, but I have A PAYING JOB. You can't intimidate me by making me pay a whole $10 to get in.

Bearing in mind that Kyle and I went to the University of Pittsburgh, we could not stop saying "This would never happen at Pitt!" The university sponsoring a foofy, artsy British indie rock band and an synth combo in spandex, fishnet shirts and bitchin' Richie Sambora leather hats in a dorm basement? A friendly and orderly keg line in the dorm laundry room? Smoking of both legal and illegal substances indoors? Kids drinking straight from a handle of Banker's Club and sharing it with the band during their set? And no pushy cops shutting the party down just as it gets good?! You would NEVER go to a show like that at Pitt. So we were kinda amazed.

I don't really know what Kyle expects me to say about Gil Mantera's Party Dream, since he was standing right next to me. I rubbed up against their sweaty sweatyness when they dove into the crowd and laughed my ass off when they did a vocoderrific cover of "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac. We got sick of being stepped on and pushed around by overzealous 19-year-olds, so we stood on the riser at the back of the room to watch Art Brut, who were hilarious and delightful. They open their set with the opening riff from "Enter Sandman." Eddie Argos looks even more like Tony Hadley in real life. Very fun indeed.

Ta--
The aforementioned Clare P.

I mean, come on! Had Joey posted what I had to say about the Art Brut show (and other shows I might mention) Haverford Indie Popster would not be writing that little invective.

Kyle and I were discussing this lil' tiff last night, and he made a good point: It all comes down to sweet, sweet alcohol. Had we been as hammered as the Haverford kids pouring onto the stage and being told by Eddie Argos to take a big step back like they were playing Red Rover at day camp, we won't lie: We too would have been in the pit, gleefully smashing into each other and the random 19-year-olds whose party we crashed. But we weren't, and we didn't.

Or, to ask my previous question in a different way, does NOT wanting to get stepped on and coated in a mixture of sweat, Jack Daniel's, patchouli oil and bongwater mean we enjoy the band any less? I think it's possible to be the tipsy, dancing superfan screaming "DO 'TRACK #1' AGAIN!!! AND DON'T LEAVE OUT THAT SECTION I LIKE IN THE MIDDLE 8 THIS TIME!!!" one night and the person tapping her feet and enjoying not just the band but the whole (to use a Lit Crit-tastic word--I know 'em too, kid) milieu another night.

The view from my desk chair.

Six months behind on everything

A few years ago, two of my friends had a good laugh at my expense. We were talking about the then-new Beck album (I think it was Sea Change) and I said it didn't wow me. They said, "Oh Clare, it doesn't matter whether you like the new Beck album or not, because in six months' time it'll be your new favorite thing." Then they laughed and laughed and laughed, and I died a little inside. Because they were right.

In keeping with my "six months behind" steez, I give you FORMED A BLOG. 'Cause, y'know, I'm six months behind the blog zeitgeist.

What can you expect from FORMED A BLOG? You can expect ruminations and commentary on work, friends, going out, shows (both TV and live music), "the scene," hipsters, family, Philadelphia, music, pop culture, links to stuff, shopping and anything else I find. You can expect it to be relatively funny, and very occasionally poignant. You can expect overuse of the following words and phrases: so, like, fuck, zeitgeist, strategery, whatevs, shows, "mother of pearl!" "for Pete’s sake," parenthetical statements, double dashes (like this --), too many commas, and too many subordinate clauses. You can expect me to make fun of people with bad taste while absolving myself of guilt about my own questionable taste. Sometimes there will be photos. And this "post to your blog from your phone!" thing is tantalizing.

So welcome to FORMED A BLOG. Look at me! I formed a blog!