Fake It Till Ya Make It

There are some harebrained schemes you come up with in life because you desperately want something. There are also schemes you formulate, just to see how far you can go—you want to test the boundaries.

While the former is often more romanticized, I’d argue that the spontaneity of a “let’s just see where this takes us” kind of endeavor can be exceptionally freeing.

With that in mind, let’s flashback a few months:

A friend and I met for drinks, and somewhere in our discussion the band Imagine Dragons was mentioned. “I like them,” I say, “but not enough to spend serious money on one of their upcoming concerts.” My new job was just beginning, cash was low, and while I’d enjoyed the band’s EP in 2012, I hadn’t even heard the new album.

“Agreed,” the friend replied (who shall remain a mystery to the internet, per her request.) “But…”

She had a thought. An intriguing thought.

For the next 15 minutes, we discussed how we could use her connections at a national magazine to get free tickets to this concert. What if she pitched the story to her old boss, as a freelance assignment? Don’t teeny-bobbers love this band? With approval, she could reach out to the PR people. Maybe they’d give us tickets—but why would she need two tickets? Ah, yes! Because I’m her photographer, of course.

I’ve got a camera.
I can take pictures.
Kind of…

Yes, it was a vague plan with many variables. But Friend made the pitch anyway.

Now flash forward to last Wednesday. I’ve all but forgotten about this concert, much less assumed I’d still be playing the role of professional photog. Yet, an adventure was in the making: Friend emailed me that night with conformation we had successfully secured tickets for [insert infamous teenage zine here].

First reaction: Yes! Free concert.
Second reaction: No! Don’t know how to take pictures.
Final thought? Meh… It’ll be fine.

So we traipsed to the Roseland Ballroom on a rainy Saturday in February. Friend marched up to the box office and coyly used the phrase I’ve always hoped to utter since watching “Almost Famous.”

“We’re with the band.”

Scratch.
Scratch.

The hipster crossed both our names off a list with a yellow highlighter, mine of which was under “Professional Photographers,” much to my chagrin.

We smushed into the large venue, weaving in and out of excitable fans until we had a decent vantage point. Of course, the fight to view the stage was persistent during the opening acts. But after blockading one dude with my book bag, refusing to let some brat take our spots, and making friends with our neighbors—the show began.

And it was actually quite awesome.

The band was especially excited to be playing in New York City, and their energy bled into the audience. Hit song "Radioactive" was explosive, and coupled with a 5-minute jam sesh of straight percussion.

Needless to say, my pictures aren’t brilliant works of art. These guys were happily flailing around, and we weren’t exactly front row. Plus, (believe it or not) this "professional photographer" doesn't even own Photoshop. 

But, as Friend reminded me, we only need one picture.
And that picture will be pretty small.

So here are a few shots from our journalistic evening (of sorts):

Hum A Little Tune

There are certain songs that remind you of a specific time in life.

For example, whenever I hear Penguin Café Orchestra’s “Perpetuum,” I’m thrown back to senior year of college.

It’s well past 2am.
Three of us are slouched over laptops in Katelyn’s room.
We smell like stale coffee.
And as I glance at my lit review, I realize it’ll be another all-nighter. I won’t sleep until after my first class. So I play this upbeat, wordless song on repeat, knowing the tune will get me through the next hour of research.

Another example: During my first year in the city, “Like a G6” blared from every grimy Lower East Side bar. The beat was guaranteed to make people dance, and the lyrics were easy enough to remember. (I also recall one friend drunkenly screaming “Like a CHEESE STICK!” to a crowd of uninterested onlookers while dancing her way to another drink. Said friend shall remain anonymous…)

I remember Death Cab for Cutie’s “Expo 86” while riding a stuffy N train to Coney Island in the summer. My hair was piled on top of my head, and I happily tapped my foot to the beat, relishing in an endless Saturday.

I remember playing “Good Ol’ Fashion Nightmare” over and over again on my way to work after ending things with a boy.

I remember moving to New York and blasting The Avett Brother’s “I and Love and You,” while driving up I-95N. (But then that became too depressing, so I switched to “Empire State of Mind.”)

There was this one song by Ra Ra Riot that played in Bloomingdales – and I loved it so much, I’d avoid customers for a precious 2 minutes and 43 seconds. You could find me in the dressing room, humming along with my eyes closed.

I first listened to Mumford and Son’s new album while walking in the Flatiron District with a leather jacket and a cheeseburger.

The Great Lake Swimmers sung their soft lyrics to a frustrated writer in her kitchen throughout a gusty fall day, while The Naked and the Famous announced the arrival of spring.

M83 “owned the sky” in 2011 (and probably in 2012 too). This band produces epic I-have-to-walk-miles-to-work music.

I danced my way through the Parents magazine internship with Passion Pit, and dubstepped my way through the eight-month Huffington Post gig.

Ray Lamontagne walked with me around Washington Square Park, while Bison’s “Switzerland” played on road trips to Newark. Edward Sharpe took on the East Village and the Shins maintained their persistent role in my life via an outdated iPhone playlist.

But that’s not even half the songs, or half the stories.
In fact, I’m already forgetting some of the details.

There were plenty of lyrics; plenty of remarkable rhythms that matched my mood as I was freaking out and making out and falling down and looking up and trying to remember to laugh, laugh, laugh.

So I thought I’d write a few down… for memory’s sake.

Because each street has a cadenced beat.
Each avenue possesses a subtle symphony.
And, what music we make.

You Know You’re STILL Poor In New York When…

You send text messages like this:

And you light candles with your stove burner – like this:

(Cuz ain’t nobody got money for matches!)

"Could I Trouble You For A Photo?"

My friend Laurie and I typically wind up in the most amusing situations.

We’ve crashed a few parties, gone to numerous book signings, and weaseled our way into some fascinating scenarios. 

But for this particularly cold Saturday in January, we had simple plans: Attempt to purchase student rush tickets to a Broadway matinee, and then enjoy a reasonably-priced brunch.

So we waited in line at the box office of The Heiress, completely frozen, though high in spirits. There were only two people in front of us, meaning our chances of grabbing discounted seats were greater than usual.

Forty-five freezing minutes later, we had two tickets to the show (but, admittedly, we had lost all feeling in our fingers and toes).

The rest of the morning was spent at a diner in Hell’s Kitchen, where we warmed up over coffee and eggs. Next we found ourselves traipsing through Soho, amongst the discounted stacks of books at Housing Works. Finally, by 1:45 Laurie and I were ushered into the Walter Kerr Theatre on West 48th Street.

A man checked our tickets.
“Oh, first row,” he said, pointing down, down, down, toward the stage.

Laurie and I exchanged excited glances. We had noticed our tickets were listed as "orchestra," but we hadn’t realized our good luck until seated approximately a foot away from the stage. If I had reached my hand out far enough, I could have grabbed the velvety red curtain – and all for a lovely $30.

The play starred Jessica Chastain (The Help, Zero Dark Thirty), Dan Stevens (Downton Abbey), and David Strathairn (Lincoln, The Bourne Ultimatum).

It was a well-done show with ornate costumes and a lavish set that was even more fascinating from the front row. I’m certainly no theater critic, but I was most impressed by Chastain’s flood of real tears in Act II and Stevens’ ability to completely snuff out his British accent, transforming himself into an earnest Yankee.

After the curtain fell, Laurie suggested we find the stage door to see if any of the actors appeared. As you might guess from previous Facebook posts and squeals of delight via Instagram, the performers did indeed grace us with their presence.

Somehow I found myself relatively close to Dan Stevens, or Matthew Crawley as you might know him from the British miniseries, Downton Abbey.

(And let’s be honest… he’s the main reason I wanted to see The Heiress.)

I passed our Playbills over a girl’s head so that he might quickly sign them. Suddenly, space opened up, and I was standing right in front of the actor, congratulating him as he initialed our programs.

Picture. I… I need a picture, I thought to myself while fumbling to pull out my cell phone. He just stood there and looked dashing.

Don’t act crazy.
You are starting to look a little crazy.
Just focus on opening the camera app.

Laurie asked if I wanted a picture with Stevens. No, no… I didn’t want to bother him, I replied in haste. Meanwhile I attempted to snap a photo of the actor while he signed another fan’s playbill.

But panic ensued.
My phone…my brand NEW iPhone… was completely frozen. Apparently, he too was star struck by the great and admirable Downton Abbey character. I silently cursed all the technology ever created in the world.

Click, click… CLICK! Nothing.
Now you really look crazy, my mind politely told me. But augh! I needed a picture of Dan Stevens, aka Cousin Matthew, aka the sudden love of my life. I’m not crazy!

Click, click… nope. It wasn’t happening.
Right then, I almost chucked my iPhone at Dan Stevens’ head.
WHY NOW!? Whhhhhhy!?

Luckily, Laurie remained calm. “Just ask him for a picture Brit,” she said with her camera ready.

“Uh… could I trouble you for a photo?” I hesitantly questioned, with as much poise as possible.
“No trouble at all,” he smiled.

You should know that Stevens has a perfect British accent.
You should also know that while I have a picture with him, my heart is not beating in said photo.

What a good ol' New York kind of day. 

[Editor’s Note: I promise I am not as bananas as this blog post may suggest, though I do have a certain weakness for all things British. Also, my bashful iPhone and I are on speaking terms again.]

Laurie and I pre-show. 

The cast was uber sweet and signed a ton of Playbills, despite the temperature outside. 

Dan Stevens, Matthew Crawley, Morris Townsend; whatever you best know him as. 
(I really did try to be cool. *Try*) 

Well, Hello 2013

We all drift.

Slightly touching, slightly bruising – we move through periods of life at an undetermined speed, where the future becomes hindsight and the present slips quickly into the past.

I was at a New Year’s Eve party near Washington D.C. only hours ago, and noticed this so-called “drift.”

It was approximately 11:52 when I carefully climbed the back of a couch in heels, and perched on a ledge above the chaos. My friends and I held our champagne in noisy expectation, surveying the packed room.

The large crowd below us was also prepared. Everyone held some sort of beverage while haphazardly watching the television pan Times Square’s cold faces. (I silently thanked God I was not anywhere near Midtown, Manhattan.)

New Year’s celebrations are always slightly bittersweet. Yes, it’s the beginning of the next chapter, and a good ol’ party is certainly appreciated.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

But it’s also the birthday of time. And time seems so vastly limiting.

“Seven, six…”

Take for instance, this party: Old friends, long ago acquaintances, new faces, names I’ve forgotten… they’re all blending together for this one moment in time. But it’s not enough! Within hours of midnight, I’ll be back on a bus traveling to New York.

“Five, four…”

And then what? On January 2, time is more or less forgotten. We retreat to our routines pre-holiday season in anti-climactic huffs. Another year has passed and we’ve drifted in and out of jobs, relationships, and homes.

Sometimes it seems as though we’re counting down toward the end, and not the beginning.

“Three…”

(Am I bringing you down? Well, I warned you about my bittersweet thoughts on the New Year.)

“Two…”

The less sour side of my opinion reveals a more optimistic outlook:

How extraordinary the connections we form; how fascinating our webs of finely-weaved hellos and goodbyes. Are there not so many people still left to meet and so many intriguing opportunities left to conquer? The thought of harping extensively on what’s already happened suddenly seems cruelly stifling.

The clock may be ticking loudly in our ears on January 1, but it certainly never stops. So embrace this fluid motion.  

Slightly touching, slightly bruising, or full-on crashing into one another…
We drift on.

“One!”

Happy New Year.
May 2013 lead to some of your greatest adventures yet.