By the Power Invested in Me

Dear Adam Powers:

I was thinking the other day about the night we met, almost a year ago now.  I don’t think you’re aware of the full story.  I’m glad we still talk, even though my brush with fame didn’t pan out.

I remember it was just after band practice and my drummer, Wombatalie, and I decided to get trashed and go to Orange County Social Club to drum up some support for an upcoming gig.  We played a little game where Wombatalie picked complete strangers for me to recruit to the show.  Within ten minutes I had convinced about eleven people we were awesome, and that’s when Wombatalie pointed out a small group of people near the bar, a group which I had been specifically avoiding, YOUR group.  You were a beautiful group, really, porcelain-faced hipster boys and a pretty black-haired girl with a stout little English Bulldog in her lap.  A bit intimidating, a bit too cool, but who’s NOT in this town?

I stumbled over to your group with my hands out and my fingers splayed inquisitively.  “Hey.  Whatchall doin tomorrow night?”

You just sort of looked at me and reluctantly answered, “Were going to Charlotte.”

“Oh no,” I said, “You’re coming to a rock show!  My band’s playing tomorrow and ya’ll should check us out.  We haven’t played many shows but we have a good time together and blahblahblah. . ” I went on for three very long minutes about how I was not trying to be egotistical by accosting potential patrons.  In the middle of my drunken babble I realized you guys were actually listening to me, so I shut up.

I remember you were holding a fancy camera and kept snapping pictures of the girl with the dog.  You turned to me and said, “Well, give us your name and number and myspace page and email and we’ll be in touch if you want.  Sorry we can’t make it, but we really have to go to Charlotte.  We’re on tour and that’s our next gig.”

Oh, neato, I thought to myself.  They’re in a band too!

Your request for extended contact information seemed a little strange, but I figured it was just some sort of networking tool.  But there was something about the way you said, “We’ll be in touch” that struck a strange chord, a business-deal-type chord.  Plus, you were beautiful and if you wanted to stalk me, I was okay with that.

I turned to the bar for a second to grab a pen.  There was a tight little group of Carrboro boys watching me, their eyes narrow slits.  They noticed I was comfortable talking to the Charlotte-bound crew (read: drunk enough not to care).  One of them stage whispered to me, “You’re friends with those guys?”  and I was like, “Yeah, why?”  I was lying, but who cared?  I didn’t know anybody in either group, so what did I have to lose?  “Really?” the boys said to me.  “That’s awesome, shit.”  Weird.

The girl with the dog looked vaguely familiar, so I decided to bother her a little bit.  Maybe I had seen her on one of my Harris Teeter Midnite Corn Dog runs.  So I proceeded to make the poor girl look at fourteen cell phone pictures of my dog.  I told the girl about how my dog gets her lips stuck in her teeth when she’s mad or excited.

I was making all kinds of dog faces at her dog.  It was sort of ridiculous.

So I felt like it was time to move on.  I had informed you guys of my show, provided you with every possible way to “keep in touch,” shared my dog pictures and performed “Boston Snorts” for y’all (the noise my dog makes when she eats flying bugs directly from the air).  There was nothing left to say, really.  I was getting progressively drunker the longer I stood there.  Your phone rang, and as I was saying goodbye, I heard little soundbytes from your side of the conversation. . . “Power. . .packed. . .just finished. . .bar. . .” and right then, the English Bulldog girl stuck her hand out and said, “Well it was awesome to meet you, my name’s Chan Marshall.  What was yours?”

And it all clicked in my tiny little brain.  I knew why she looked so familiar.  I mean, I read Rolling Stone and Spin for god’s sakes.

“Um.”  I stammered a little, then a lot, “Man-M-Mandey?”  I said my name like it was a question.

See, it’s hard to properly remember your name when you realize you have just unknowingly invited fucking CAT POWER to your band’s little gig.

Yeah, I so did.

So now Cat Power thinks I’m some stupid crazed fan who’s all like, “Chan, Chan!  Come to my show!  Listen to my demo!  I wanna toooouuuur with yoooooouuu pleeez!!!”  when in all actuality I had no idea who you guys were when I walked up.

I said bye, quickly, and stumbled back to Wombatalie and said, “IjustinvitedCatPowertoourshowtomorrowwehavetogonowdonotdelay.”

We ran outside and Wombatalie was laughing at me and we were freaking out and I got in my Baby Battered Honda and turned the keys, quick, and Wombat jumped on top of my car hood and hung her face down in front of the windshield and said, “GO WOMBAT GO” and right when I was about to take off pealing out of the parking lot with her on my roof, you materialized from nowhere and started snapping pictures with your fancy camera.  And there was Chan, watching us and giggling and cheering us on as we performed parking lot stunts.

And I swear I’m gonna sue if we don’t end up on Cat Power’s tour blog with an appropriate caption such as, “Retards Go For Spin After Crazed Attempt At Starfucking!”  Or maybe just, “Retards!”

So that’s my story.  Of course, y’all didn’t come to the show.  You were touring.  And maybe one day we’ll hang out again, but probably we’ll just keep emailing till we forget about each other.  Cat Power’s keeping in touch, so you never know.

Love,

Mandey?

~ by socialpariah on July 18, 2008.