Back 2 Good

We parted last as I embarked, post-freak snowstorm, on a questionable two-hour car ride to Uncasville, CT to see the best band of all time perform at Mohegan Sun.

A short one hour and fifty-five minutes later (just long enough to listen to both North and my "Matchbox Twenty Rules the World" albums in their entirety), Andrew and I pulled into the parking lot of the scenic Microtel Inn and Suites by Wyndham. At 7pm, we were pushing the limits of our time frame (the concert started at 7:30, and I wasn't sure if there was an opening act or not), but I managed to check in, shimmy into better jeans, spritz and smear (perfume and lipstick, respectively), forcibly yank Andrew off of the bed and get back out to the lobby to meet the next shuttle at 7:20.

It took us about seven minutes to get to the casino, during which I glanced at my cell phone's clock no less than 42 times. Thirty seconds after pulling up to the door, I had bounded out of the back seat, sprinted to the entrance and was huffing impatiently at Andrew as he jogged to catch up. As I navigated the crowd with my ninja-like skills (and by that I mean, "politely tried to push people who looked like they could handle it out of my way while avoiding the urge to frantically shout, 'IT'S 7:32 AND I WILL CUT YOU!'"), I caught a whisper of music floating out of the concert venue. Upon realizing that it was not, in fact, coming from my beloved boys, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, released my death-grip on Andrew's upper arm and followed him to the concessions area before proceeding up to the seats I'd purchased on StubHub 48-hours before.

A quick word about our seats: if you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen this:

The tix that I paid $50 each for @matchboxtwenty @mohegansun after mine fell through Wednesday are now going for $19 each. Someone hold me.
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) March 8, 2013

Obviously, when Andrew informed me on Friday afternoon that the seats I had purchased for $50 apiece on Wednesday were going for $19 due to Winter Storm Saturn, I was a little bit, shall we say, peeved. Upon emerging from the staircase leading into the arena, however, every bit of that animosity faded into distant memory when I saw this:

Actual seats, sans zoom. These seats were like a rear-view mirror: closer than they appear

I've made the decision to buy "possibly obstructed view" seats for concerts in the past, particularly those that are located in the sections directly next to/slightly above the stage. Of probably eight concerts, I'd say only one or two of them has disappointed; this one, of course, did not. In fact, we were closer to the band and had a better view than at least half of the arena, which is, admittedly, larger than I expected it to be for a casino in the middle of Connecticut.

Matt Hires, whom I am sorry to say I had never heard of before, was the opening act. Despite my Twitter snark, I actually managed to put my urge to start a, "WE WANT ROB" chant aside and took the time to really listen to Mr. Hires' set. He's very talented, and even Andrew commented after he was done that he "would pay that guy five bucks if he handed me his cd on the street in NYC" (Matt Hires, if you're reading this, don't get a big head over that; Andrew is also the proud owner of a $5 EP by a wannabe rapper named Mustafa, so...).

I have to give it to the production people -- they really knew their audience, and spent the twenty-five minutes between sets playing a blend of Rob Thomas' solo works and Top 40 hits from MB20's early '00 heyday (my personal favorite being "Flavor of the Week," because what Millenial Girl did not, at one time, blast this song alone in the car and dedicate it to that poor friend who had no idea that her boyfriend was a raging dbag sending inappropriate IMs to other girls? I know I certainly did).

Because our seats were above stage right, we had the opportunity to watch all of the behind-the-scenes activity as MB20 prepared to take the stage. Once Paul Doucette (henceforth known as Charlie Day, because that's how Andrew keeps referring to him) finished tuning his guitar, it was pretty evident that the headliners were about to start. At 8:30 on the dot, the lights went down and the opening chords of "Parade" rang through the arena.

Too much awesome to handle.

And then I went nucking futs.

For the next 130 minutes, I was in a state of euphoria that is probably only achievable via drugs or seeing your favorite high school band live again after twelve years. You could have told me that I was dying of some terminal illness and I would have looked at you with a stupid zombie grin on my face and said, "THAT'S GREAT! LOOK, IT'S ROB THOMAS! ISN'T KYLE COOK AWESOME? DID YOU KNOW PAUL USED TO BE THE DRUMMER? EEEEEE!"

I'm aware that this is not normal.

I do not care.

The set list was exactly what I would have put together if I were in charge of such tasks. In fact, the only song that I didn't see coming was the Encore cover of David Bowie's "Changes" which, despite what the MassLive review I read said, was awesome. All of the old classics were intermingled with songs from North, which provided an interesting audience dynamic in that you could tell exactly which faction each member of the crowd was from: old fan, new fan or diehard. The woman to our left, for example, was old-school, enthusiastically singing every lyric to, "Bent" and "Bright Lights" but sitting contemplatively during the newer songs from North. The two mid-20s guys very enthusiastically trying to catch Rob's attention and bopping along to "She's So Mean" and "How Far We've Come" were a little quieter during "Disease" and "Back 2 Good". And the middle-aged man in a mock-neck zipup who spent the entire concert screaming along with everything from "3am" to "English Town" and regaling us with some of the sickest aisle dance moves I've seen outside of tv? Well, let's just say that I witnessed my future and leave it at that.

A little more than halfway through the concert, I had a mini-moment in which I was just completely, utterly overtaken by emotion. As the band transitioned from "I Will" (a pretty little number that is one of my favorites from North) into "Unwell," I took a second to just close my eyes and take it in. Then I burst into tears.

But really though.

I always say that "Bed of Lies" is my all-time favorite MB20 song, but the one that means the most to me is, without a semblance of a doubt, "Unwell." Throughout the past twelve years, through break-ups, make-ups, crises both professional and personal, this one short, 3-minute-something long song has reminded me that no matter how unhinged I feel, no matter how off-the-rails circumstances seem to be headed, I will be ok and come out of it alright on the other side. When I was unraveling in college, when I realized a few years later that I had to put myself first and that doing so would mean losing a lot of my friends, when I felt like my very grasp on reality was slipping through my fingers, I put "Unwell" on repeat and cried until I didn't have a single tear left to cry.

So when those first few recognizable notes resounded throughout the arena, all of those emotions that I associate with MB20, from the teenage angst that led to that first concert to the unbearable heartbreak of a dissolved long-term relationship to the utter helplessness and anxiety while falling into a quarter-life crisis, they all came to a spiritual crescendo of sorts. After almost thirteen years of identifying with this music, these words, these feelings, I closed my eyes to experience it all over again, and opened them to see thousands of people like myself who were similarly, but not identically, moved. I looked around at them, then at the band and then finally at Andrew, sitting there observing and pretending to know the words while singing along, holding my hand and then trying not to laugh as he leaned over and shouted, "are you CRYING?"

And in that moment, I just felt thankful. 

RT killing it on the piano

I know it seems silly to place such importance on a song, a band, a brief series of events in one's life. At the end of the concert, though, I was reminded again of why I love not just Matchbox Twenty, but music from the late 90s-early 00s  in general. As a teenager and early 20-something, we're all a little bit lost, whether we choose to admit it or not. It's that weird time in our lives when it feels like everything will last forever, but there is also an underlying awareness that we are all, in fact, speeding towards the end of... something. It's a time of simultaneous exhilaration and terror which forces us not only to wonder what our futures hold, but also daring us to do something about it. It's sink or swim at its finest.

Most of us, in one way or another, find a way to stay afloat. At 16...18...22...I had no idea who I was, what I wanted or in which direction my life was headed. The countless hours of TRL, the painstaking precision of hitting "record" on a dual-cassette player to create the perfect mix tape, the destinationless drives with the windows down and the Weekly Top 40 blaring loud for all to hear -- at times, these were the life rafts tethering me to reality. Now at 28, an age when I expected to have everything together, the husband, the house, the 2.5 kids and the fantastic job, it's ironic that I have none of those things but find myself perfectly, for the most part, content. I have a loving and generous boyfriend, an apartment that feels like home, a gaggle of nieces and nephews to spoil and a career that allows me to do something I enjoy while still pursuing the activities, hobbies and travel that leave me truly inspired. Despite all of those moments where I felt like I had fallen apart and would never get put back together, I did. I do.

So when the lights came up and Andrew grabbed my hand, and the two of us left the arena to grab some food at Bobby's Burger Palace and lose all our money playing slots, I continued to grin like an idiot. In fact, as I sit here typing, I still am. 

Because I have come so far, and I am happy.

And Matchbox Twenty reminds me of that.

PS - Thank you. Andrew, you dear, sweet man, for putting up with me. I promise that the next time we go see Kelly Clarkson you can comment on how hot she is and pontificate the perfect fit of her jeans for a full 48 hours afterward. I am nothing if not fair.

That Time I Multi-Tweeted Rob Thomas

As some of you may recall, I have a bit of a thing for Matchbox 20. It's not really an obsession; it's more of a one-sided relationship. I am like Helga; MB20 is like Arnold. (If you don't understand that reference, you're probably too young to be reading this blog).

[Source]

Anyway.

So, about six weeks ago, Andrew asked me to meet him for "happy hour" (quotations used because the state of Massachusetts does not, by law, allow happy hour, because the state of Massachusetts hates fun). I willingly skipped my planned date with the elliptical and instead settled on a date with my boyfriend. After a few pints, we met up with some of his friends at the kind of bar I would be embarrassed to admit going to, but since we went at 8:30 (and were home by 11), I didn't hate it.

After our first round of tequila and tonics (don't look at me; I'm not the pervert who ordered them), someone (who might or might not have been me) put "3AM" on the electronic jukebox. Because we were The Old People at the bar (ages 25-28, respectively), our motley little crew of four guys plus me started belting out the lyrics with reckless abandon, occasionally subbing out, "it's 3am I must be lonely" for, "It's 9pm, I must be tipsy." Personally, I live by the mantra, "when Rob Thomas sings, you warble along." It's just, like, the rules of feminism (and clearly, my guy friends are all feminists. Or something. Just go with it)!

A few minutes and another round later, it was brought to our attention that said bar had a live Twitter feed scrolling across the bottom of the 49,000 televisions adorning every surface. Like any good, buzzed citizens, we took it upon ourselves to then hijack the twitter feed. 

By this point, my second song ("She's So Mean") came blasting through the speakers. Somewhere along the line, my synapses kicked into overdrive, and my thought process went something like this:

She's So Mean --> Matchbox Twenty --> Mohegan Sun --> Rob Thomas --> Twitter --> Tweet Rob Thomas

All of this in the span of under two seconds (don't be alarmed; this is par for the course with me).

Like any mildly-intoxicated modern American, I sometimes don't think before I act. Unlike my previous 20 tweets, all directed towards the lame bar patrons surrounding us and imploring them to join our impromptu karaoke party, I directed my next one towards Mr. Rob Thomas himself, asking why the closest MB20 is getting to Boston is a 2-hour drive away in Connecticut.

I also addressed the next one to him, inquiring as to whether Boston was on the short list for any future tour stops.

And the next one, wondering what it was like to be the rainmaker, and what it was like to know that I made the rain (and wondering why I was naive enough to think my friends/family would listen when I told them all I wanted for Christmas was tickets to this concert).

And the next one, avowing my 10+ year love of the band and directing them all toward the I Go Back post.

You get the picture (this is where I would literally allow you to see the picture; during my next-morning shame spiral, however, I deleted all but one of these classic tweets). So, I give you this:

@thisisrobthomasWHY arent you comingto Boston? It's a major city that loves #mb20 & the closest tix for your fans are $200 in CT..#sosad
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) January 27, 2013

Fast-forward a few weeks, when we're in the midst of #Blizzard2013, aka Nemo (and an impromptu kegger thrown by one of Andrew's friends, but that's another story for another day. Clearly, inclement weather brings out the best of Boston). I was, once again, browsing The Twitter. I saw this, and promptly texted Leah to tell her that we should just buy tickets through a third-party vendor, stay up all night gambling, get some McMuffins and drive home the next day. She agreed, then we both promptly forgot about this half-assed plan.

Until her coworker, who is a VIP at Mohegan Sun Player's Club, learned of our obsession and kindly offered us her two gratis tickets to tonight's concert.

To say we were thrilled is an understatement; I screamed at my desk when I got Leah's text. We spent the past three weeks giddily texting each other, planning on how to get to Uncasville, CT by 7:30 during Friday rush hour and, in the past few days, trying to figure out how to navigate the ever-changing forecast. As of Wednesday, our plan was set; our tickets were secure and our hotel room was booked. The stars were aligning perfectly in our favor.

Until, that is, the motherfluffling house of Saturn felt the need to rise on New England and not only meet, but exceed expectations. Suddenly, the woman who had so generously offered us her VIP tickets couldn't go pick them up, because her bus wasn't making the trip (and apparently Mohegan hasn't latched on to the whole"Will Call" craze that started sweeping the nation in, oh... 1985). So we didn't have tickets. Being the internet-savvy individual I am, I immediately went to StubHub and bought two, which had dropped in price from $200 to $50 in the past six weeks. Then, Leah's car needed a new battery and she ended up dropping a chunk of change into that, sapping her MB20 budget. So, I didn't have a partner to join me. Seeing how bummed out this was making me, Sir Galahad himself (aka Andrew) offered to be my date, despite making fun of my MB20 obsession for the duration of our four-and-a-half year relationship. He said that instead of spending $$ on a hotel room, we could just round-trip the drive to and from Boston.

I once again had tickets, a friend and a mode of transportation/accommodations. Everything was coming up Milhouse.

And then Saturn. 

As of right now, I'm not 100% positive that we will actually make it to the concert. Actually, I was all for throwing in the towel, eating my $100 and calling it a wash. I figured Rob Thomas would understand, given the 15+ inches of snow outside (plus, it's partly MB20's fault for not coming to Boston in the first place; after the previously mentioned kegger, our little crew ventured out in the middle of a blizzard to see a Bruce Springsteen cover band. That's right; A COVER BAND). Andrew, on the other hand, insists that we try. The snow has stopped, the roads are clearing up, and with any luck, everyone else and their mother will have already gotten out of the city, paving the road from Boston to Uncasville, CT with gold (records. Zing!).

I'll be sure to let you all know how it turns out.


Side note: I am aware that this is an incredibly petty, whiny post, epitomizing the cliche of, "privileged problems." People in towns not too far from here are afraid they will lose their homes, and there are thousands of people without power here in MA alone. My "problem" is completely vapid, insignificant and pales in comparison to those very real, heartbreaking issues. This was written somewhat to satirize my own stupidity, so take it for what it is. Carry on. 

I Wish the Real World...

A few weeks ago, I chronicled the unusually vivid memories that a certain song brings back for me. Almost immediately after I hit, "Publish," on that entry, I had another "I Go Back" moment  (Holla atcha boy Kenny!) -- and decided right then and there that since I had so much fun writing that first post and re-living my awkward past, I wanted to make the chronicles of these tunes a recurring (but not regular) series on TCE. What better way to get to know someone than through her own recollections of her formative years, in all their awkward, angsty, horrifying glory, all set to a kick-ass nerdy an eclectic soundtrack?

Yet again, as I was wandering back into the building from collecting my lunch (cajun bowl, brown rice and white meat chicken, from Bolocco -- if you've not had one, get thine ass there NOW. Trust me; just do it.), the coffee cart downstairs was playing its usual easy listening, adult contemporary mix, and as I pressed the elevator button to mosey back upstairs, the words hit me like a ton of bricks:

I think I've already lost you; I think you're already gone...

Now, I don't know about you, but in high school, I was pretty damn sure that I was, in fact, living out a Matchbox 20 song. I would saunter down the hallways, randomly whipping my head around to make sure that Rob Thomas, in all of his broody, hot, shaggy-before-Bieber glory, was not literally following me around and penning his inspirational lyrics based upon my mediocre existence. I never actually caught him, but I'm still pretty sure he was there. I mean, he's pretty skinny. I bet he could fit behind a locker or something.

[Source]

Holy. Yum.


Ok, now that I have quit drooling long enough to type, I can admit: I first became a fan while I was glued to my tv, obsessively voting for the BSB on TRL (THAT'S another blog post for another day). And then Rob came about, leading a camel around a bowling alley and singing words that went straight to my 14-year old heart. Yes, I DID always wonder what it was like to be the Rainmaker, and what it would be like to know that I made the rain (side note: I am thoroughly saddened by the fact that an entire generation will think this line has something to do with dolla dolla bills, ya'll). Most importantly, I wished the real world would just stop hasslin' me. In that moment, I became an MB20 lifer.

Just shy of my 16th birthday, I got my very first real boyfriend. This was good for 2 reasons: 1) I was beginning to wonder if I would EVER get my first kiss, and 2) I was dating a guy that all of my friends had had crushes on in the months leading up to our coupledom, and they were all insanely jealous. Score one for me. I felt like sort of a scumbag at first, because he had dated another friend of mine before me, but I was honest and up front, told her I had the hots for him post-their-breakup, and she gave us her blessing. She'd moved on to greener pastures by that point, anyway.

A blissful high school eternity Three months and 26 days later, my heart was crushed when, as we carried on our nightly tradition of tying up our families' phone lines on both AIM and the cordless at the same time, he said something about how he just didn't like me much anymore and we were now broken up. Sobbing hysterically, I ran right to my room and did what any normal 16 year old does: blasted angsty music, ate an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos and began the laborious endeavor of making sad mix tapes -- which, at the time, entailed sitting next to your duel-cassette tape deck with the radio on, waiting patiently for Joey McIntyre's "Stay the Same" the song of your choice to come on and painstakingly hitting "Record" at just the right moment. As I sat there, cheetos falling like tears all around me, the song I'd been waiting for finally hit the airwaves.



"Can you help me? I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never, get put back together..." 

Right after "Bent" ended, safely embedded upon my cassette tape, I heard the DJ mentioning something about how MB20 was coming to a local arena in two weeks... "along with special guests, Lifehouse and Everclear!" At the mention of that, I nearly choked on my fifty-fourth Oreo. No, not because MB20 and Rob Thomas himself would soon my in my vicinity, but because the object of my defeated affections happened to be a HUGE Everclear fan. YES! THIS WAS IT! I KNEW HOW TO GET HIM BACK!

Aided and abetted by my crazy mother, along with a six-month sentence of increased indentured servitude, I managed to procure a set of four tickets to the upcoming concert. Ever so casually, I happened to mention it to the ex one day, which went as follows:

Oh, yeah, I'm going to Matchbox Twenty... did you know Everclear is opening? Wow, you're a fan? No way; I had no idea! Would you believe I have two extra tickets that I can't seem to get rid of? Yeah! Nuts, right? Oh, you would take them? Well, I mean, I have to think about it; I kind of have my toe in a few waters right now, you know... Hmm, on second thought, sure. Oh, did I mention Leah and Kat got tickets, too, and we rented a limo?"

The Bachelor is damn lucky I happened to be taken by the time I ever really got into watching it, because those other broads never would have stood a chance. Smooth like buttah; that's me.

Armed with nothing but some sweet butterfly hair clips, a few friends and a driver named Adam Geoffrey (at least that's what we called him, despite his insistence that it was not, in fact, his name), I set about my task. Of course, we missed basically all of Lifehouse, because we got stuck in traffic, but we were there for Everclear. Ex kept going onnn and onnn about how awesome it was to be there. I smiled and laughed, acted cool (because nothing is more lame and less attractive than a desperate girl clinging to her thwarted love interest, right?), and went NUTS when MB20 came on.

In fact, I might have managed to find the one time the entire arena went quiet to loudly declare, "ROB THOMAS I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

Awkward.

[I'm the one in the black, with the sweet purse and butterfly hair clips, third from the right. Please note Geoffrey.]

Still totally amped about the awesome concert we'd just attended (and our brand-spankin' new black, rainbow-lettered Matchbox Twenty baby tees), we hopped into the limo and decided to play that old teenage standby, Truth or Dare. Finally! This was it! My friends knew of my ulterior motives for this little trip, and I was sure they would hook me up (no pun intended). Needless to say, you can imagine my expression when, after my friend picked "Dare," she ended up making out with MY ex-boyfriend right there in front of me. If you CAN'T imagine my expression, just watch Mean Girls and study LiLo when Regina starts making out with Aaron at the Halloween party. (Yes, 2 song recaps, 2 Mean Girls refs. Swish!).

And then they dated.

Cue "Leave".

 You know, I wish I could say that I had some kind of huge "EFF YOU" moment that came out of this, where the heroine is vindicated and wins a recording contract or book deal or something after furiously pouring her heart out onto the page. Unfortunately, AIM statuses (stati?) weren't exactly fodder for 6-figure book advances, so I really don't. In fact, I'm still good friends with that guy, to the point that we both usually forget the fact that we ever dated, unless it's brought up in conversation because we are standing in a circle of his ex-girlfriends (he was one of those guys who had a problem with dating "in the circle," if you will) and laughing about the hilarity of our misspent youth.

As for the friend who made out with him, I held a grudge for a few years, but by the time we got to college, it really wasn't worth it. She IMed me one day, coincidentally after another bad breakup on my end, and asked me to accompany her on a visit to Martha's Vineyard for the day. I did, we talked, we laughed, we cried -- and now we've had tons of drinks, crazy experiences and belly laughs over the whole teenage debacle. She's one of my besties, and affectionately known as my "boyfriend," since when we were both single and all our friends were obsessed with trolling the bars like trollops, we were content sitting at home, making pizzas and watching Rosemary's Baby, confident that we would find quality men one day, who were worthy of our awesomeness.  And then we did.

And I owe it all to Rob Thomas.

Swoon.