I've said it before. My teenage daughter is a groupie. It's official.
Actually, it's been official for quite some time.
She started going to concerts a couple of years ago. Mostly, she goes to hear bands that I've never heard of at venues I've never been to. In fact, when one of her bands makes it big (like Imagine Dragons did after they were covered on Glee — oh, and won a Grammy — or like Walk the Moon has with "Shut Up and Dance With Me"), it irritates her to no end. Suddenly ticket prices soar; suddenly it's harder to get autographs, drumsticks, playlists and selfies; suddenly her bands play at 21 and up clubs where she can't go.
The horror!
Recently, the concerts have become bigger — I'm sure she would argue "better" — experiences. For example, we had the all-day vigil outside the House of Blues; and our mother-daughter evening in Boston. Now, she's crossing state lines.
This past weekend, my daughter and a bestie went down to Providence, Rhode Island to see a band at some waterfront venue somewhere. This concerned me. I've pretty much, almost, sort of gotten over my fear of her driving. But, going to and from her stable is one thing. Driving on highways to another state is ... well ... another.
Luckily, my husband pointed out that driving to Providence on a Friday in the summer would not be a very good idea. You see, in between Boston and Providence is this peninsula called Cape Cod (you may have heard of it). The highway I was so afraid of would be a parking lot, and they would get there at about half past never.
Hooray for public transportation!
The girls left our town later than they had planned (but earlier than they would have if I had insisted that my daughter go change into a different tank top that didn't showcase her bra quite so much). They drove to the nearest T station, got on a train to Boston, and then took the commuter rail down to Providence. By now, my daughter knows that frequent texts and a selfie or two go a long way toward calming my nerves. She sent a picture of the two of them enjoying a particularly nutritious South Station breakfast: pretzel bites.
By all accounts (and a handful of text messages), their day in Providence was great fun. They found "the cool neighborhood" with its own Urban Outfitters. They got elaborate henna tattoos on their hands. And they arrived at the concert venue two hours early so they could snag and save front row seats. The last train back to Boston was at 10:40 pm and they were to be on it. No excuses, no kidding. They had to catch that train on pain of death. (Really. If my husband or I had to drive two hours to rescue them, heads were definitely going to roll.)
Despite the looming curfew, they had a wonderful time. They met the band and got autographed CDs. And, they made the train. They were home by about 1:00 am. I was already asleep upstairs. My husband was asleep with the puppy on the couch.
As is my way these days, I reminded myself that I was fairly autonomous at my daughter's age. In fact, I was younger
than she is when I went to visit colleges. A high school classmate and I
took Amtrak from New York to Boston, and stayed with an older girl from our school in
Harvard Square. I took the bus to Tufts, and toured the campus by myself, hitting all the
important things — the arena theatre, a dining hall, a dorm, the library — then took the bus back. On the next and last day of my visit, I
went into Boston, where I fell in love with Beacon Hill and Faneuil Hall and the Charles River and the North End. I applied to Tufts early decision and didn't look back.
I realized a while ago that my daughter's life is more exciting than mine these days. While she was in a state of bliss in, oddly enough, the state of Rhode Island, I realized that I might also be in a state.
A state of agitation.
A state of anxiety.
A state of emergency.
Then I decided that it would be better for all involved if I took a little trip to the state of acceptance. It was a much better place to be.
I just wish they had henna tattoos there.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I have a thing about personal space. It's very important to me, which is a bit ironic since I grew up in New York City. In NYC — unless you're a Vanderbilt, a Rockefeller or a Rothschild — personal space is hard to come by. From a real estate perspective, that is.
It's even harder to negotiate on public transportation at rush hour.
Prior to my recent high school reunion, some of my classmates posted their favorite (and especially not-so-favorite) memories. Many of them commuted into Manhattan each day from one of the other boroughs. Most of us remember the perverts on the 1970s subways who used the crowded cars as an excuse to crowd their private parts up against high school student bodies. In seventh grade health ed, one of the first things we learned was how to stay safe. One particular teacher explained that all the inappropriate touching masked a deep desire for anonymity. These creeps counted on our doing and saying nothing to draw attention to them. Her suggestion? If we found a man's hand suddenly groping our ass, we should grab it, hold it high and loudly ask "Whose hand is this?" She assured us the man — and his hand — would soon slink away.
Thankfully, I never had to resort to that tactic. But, I certainly had my share of close encounters in those days.
These days, as an adult who can control her environment most of the time, I cherish my space. If you're a friend or family, a colleague or classmate, I will very happily hug and kiss you. But, if you're some stranger in a sweaty subway car, please please please keep your distance. Please.
So you can imagine how happy I was to find myself on the floor of the TD Bank Garden last night. When we arrived at 7:30, there was still a semblance of breathing room. By the time the headlining band started at 9:30, not so much. Very soon we were packed like proverbial sardines. There wasn't any groping going on (at least none that I noticed and certainly none aimed at me — not a surprise, really, since I was about 25-30 years older than the average concert goer).
But, there were other indignities.
Let me back up for a moment and explain how I happened to be there. My daughter had plans to see Imagine Dragons (a favorite) with a bestie. However, said bestie had a conflict and suddenly my daughter was stuck with two general admission tickets. She texted everyone she could think of, but no one was available at such short notice. So, she came to me with Plan A.
"I could go by myself," she said. "I'd be safe."
My immediate answer was no. She immediately transitioned to Plan B.
"Would you go with me?"
As countless people have observed, I'm just a mom who can't say no. We ate a quick dinner, fed the dog, and headed to Boston.
Which leads me to the aforementioned other indignities.
Over-the-Top Parking — One we got into town, we passed a lot a couple of blocks from the Garden. I pulled in, thinking it would be a deal. "$40, thank you," said the young attendant. "$40? No thank you!" said I. My daughter shot me the first of many 'Please don't embarrass me' looks. We ended up under the Garden for $45, which was slightly more convenient. In addition to paying the additional $5 though, it probably took us an extra 40 minutes to negotiate the traffic around the venue after the show. Ugh.
The Special General Admission Entrance — Once we parked, we had to leave the Garden to go back into the Garden through a special entrance. We then walked up 5 or 6 flights of stairs (which felt like 7 or 8) to get our wristbands. "How are you tonight?" asked the jovial wristband guy. "Winded," I quipped. "There's oxygen on the next level," he quipped back. Our little exchange earned me another look.
Warm-Up Bands — My daughter was very excited to see the first of the two opening acts: Halsey. And, she was really very impressive. But, the second band was less so. Actually, that's not entirely true. I was impressed with the way the lead singer seemed to channel a howling chihuahua.
(I don't think I was the target audience. But, in my defense, I was also not the only middle-aged mother there.)
Sticky Floors — Neither my daughter nor I bought so much as a soda, but I think we carried an entire keg home on the soles of our shoes.
Weapons of Facial Destruction, a.k.a. Hair — This was truly the most annoying part of an evening that (let's face it) wouldn't have been my first choice (or second or third). A young woman next to me had her pretty blond hair in a high ponytail. That's her business, right? It's a free country, right? The problem was that every time she turned to look at the stage or the crowd or a friend or ... well ... pretty much anything, that ponytail whipped across my face.
In all fairness, Imagine Dragons were terrific! They put on an excellent show and were genuinely happy to be there. Such nice, appreciative boys, I have to give them credit even if my feet were killing me by the time they got to the handful of hits I recognized. We left about 11:00 and rolled sleepily into our already sleeping town at about 12:15 a.m.
As I've said, it wouldn't have been at the top of my list, but I survived. Like Imagine Dragons, I found myself feeling appreciation too.
I may not have been at the top of my daughter's list, but I enjoyed (most of) my time in her personal space.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
I've done it again, folks. Qualified for the Mother of the Year Award. (I have yet to win this award, btw, but I do qualify quite often.) This go round, it was based on a selfless gift of time, an inordinate amount of hassle, some expense, and superhuman (or at least super-mom) understanding.
Yes, I am all that.
Several months ago, in a state of fatigue or stress, or merely an unguarded moment, I agreed that my teenage daughter could go to a concert. Not just any concert, but "Imagine Dragons." At an arena about 60 miles from our town. On a school night.
As per usual, my daughter borrowed my American Express card to order tickets online. In theory, she pays for these events herself with her own money (actually, between babysitting, and two different weekend jobs, she tends to have more cash on hand these days than either my husband or I do). In reality, I think I lose track of all that she owes me and a lot become gifts by default. Soon, she received plain, old, ordinary tickets; special "Memory Tickets;" and a tour tee shirt. (I began to wonder what kind of V.I.P. package I — er, I mean she — had sprung for.) And, before we knew it, the long-anticipated day was upon us.
I mentioned that the concert venue was some 60 miles from our house. I did not, however, explain that the route there ran through the city of Boston at rush hour. The GPS on my iPhone said that the trip would be 90 minutes.
Not exactly. Try two and a half hours.
Excited anticipation turned into mild concern into downright anxiety as the clock moved and we didn't. It wasn't merely the thought of missing the opening act. The stakes were much higher.
My daughter had reached out to a radio producer she'd met at a smaller House of Blues concert last fall. The woman had told her to stay in touch, and she had done so, politely but persistently. Lo and behold, the morning before the concert, my daughter had finally heard back from her. "Okay," read the email, "You and your plus-one be at the box office at 7:10, and whatshisname from the record label will take you back to meet Imagine Dragons."
OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Of course, all of this fortuitous gift from the gods stuff would be null and void if they missed that 7:10 appointment with whatshisname. And, while I can control neither nature nor weather nor traffic, it would be all my fault. It didn't help that mobile technology allowed us to constantly — and I do mean constantly — check our progress, miles left and estimated arrival time.
We finally pulled up in the "Drop-Off/Pick-Up" lane outside the arena at 7:00 p.m. The girls jumped out and I managed to yell "Meet me right here after the show!" A cop motioned for me to move along. Then, I was left to my own devices.
I figured I had four or four and a half hours to kill, and I had done my homework. There was a fairly close, fairly renowned regional theatre that was presenting Cirque Eloize, a French performance/circus arts troupe. I was able to score a half-price ticket for a single seat in the mezzanine. I figured that would kill two hours. The closest Starbucks was open until 10:00 pm. At that point, I could head back to the arena and live park somewhere. I'm not a napper by nature, but I thought I could listen to music or read a magazine.
The first part of my plan worked. I was ten minutes late for my 7:00 performance, but the show didn't really have a beginning-middle-end narrative, so aside from annoying the guy in the seat next to mine, my lateness was okay. Starbucks was clean and bright and friendly. When they kicked me out (cordially, of course), I drove back to the arena and parked outside the same "Drop-off/Pick-Up" sign, congratulating myself on my master plan mastery.
I was there maybe five minutes when a different cop rapped on the window and demanded that I move. "Now!" I did what any self-respecting middle-aged mother would do.
'Played the middle-aged mother card.
"I'm so sorry, officer," I purred. "My daughters are in there and I don't know this town. Is there somewhere else I can wait?"
He was suddenly all sweetness and light (it occurs to me, with horror, that I may have reminded him of his own mother). He suggested that I circle the arena and then pull up to a meter on one of the side streets behind it. "There's no overnight parking," he advised, "So just be sure you stay with the vehicle, ma'am." Yeah, right, like I'm going to leave my vehicle on some random back street of some random little city that I don't know from a hole in the wall.
His recommendation was apt except for two complications that were beyond his control. The first was a bona fide drug deal that I had the pleasure of witnessing. The other was the 55-minute (I am not exaggerating) dead-stop, grid-lock, traffic jam I was stranded in when the show ended. Thank goodness for cell phones. I was able to call my daughter, change rendezvous plans, and while we still didn't move for a very long time, the two girls were safely in the car with me. We weren't going anywhere, but at least we weren't going there together.
Since that evening, my daughter has been appreciative and responsible. She has very much lived up to her end of the bargain. It was a huge schlep (huge!), but I felt good about following through after making a — let's face it — downright idiotic agreement. I got to see a show. I got to see an illegal transaction. And, I learned something pretty remarkable about my daughter.
For someone who is often too shy to talk to anyone in the cafeteria, that girl can hold her own with radio producers and bona fide rockstars.
And, she has the photo, drumstick, signed CD and exhausted mother to prove it.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
July 24th; it's finally here. Finally, finally. My teenage daughter has been counting the days.
I mean, really, she's been counting them.
You see, her iPhone has a countdown app and months ago, she put today's date into it. While she finished up freshman year, studied for finals, wrote her last term papers, she would check it over and over. And over and over. As though time would somehow fast-forward more quickly if she obsessively stared at that little screen.
What is it they say about a "watched pot?" No matter, today's finally the day ...
Imagine. Dragons. In. Concert.
OMG.
This is the second time my daughter will see them live. (She is a very dedicated fan.) And, I don't mind this particular pastime. Not as expert as my offspring by any stretch, I have to say that I like the Imagine Dragons lyrics I do know ...
It's time to begin, isn't it?
I get a little bit bigger, but then I'll admit
I'm just the same as I was
Now don't you understand
That I'm never changing who I am
We could do worse.
Yesterday, I had back-to-back-to-back meetings in Boston. When I finally got home, I found my daughter and one of her besties knee-deep in poster boards, markers and cut paper. They were making "fan art." If you're about my age, you may remember attending concerts and bringing (or seeing) large banners that praised the band or made some sort of pun based on one of their songs or simply said "I love you, Jon Bon Jovi!" (In my case, it was Elton John — now that was a realistic crush!)
The idea, I guess, was that the rockstar in question would see your banner, realize that you were the love of his life, find you, marry you, take you on the road. (Then, he'd drop acid with you, drop out, drop into rehab, drop you for a younger groupie ... you get the idea.)
Well fan art today is totally like that. Except it's totally different.
Today's concert audience creates fan art and posts it online rather than off the first row of the balcony blue seats at Madison Square Garden. You create something brilliant, send it out into the cyberinternetosphere and hope that a member of the band will "Like" it or "Tweet" it, link it, re-post it or share it.
Despite millions of fans posting millions of examples of fan art, the chance of getting noticed is actually much higher today than it was for us. My daughter is Facebook friends with some of the members of Imagine Dragons. This may not mean they actually know each other, of course, at least not in the analog world. But she's a lot closer to her idols than I was with my $16 ticket in 1975.
And what better way to get their attention than through art? It's been a lot of years since my daughter chose a craft project over a YouTube video. Can't say that I mind this particular pastime one bit.
The girls worked hard on their fan art, took a quick break for dinner, and continued on their masterpiece long after yours truly went to bed. This morning, my daughter brought her phone to show me ...
"They didn't re-post it," she pouted with a tiny gleam in her eye. "But, look at this!"
There, on her wall, was a comment from one of the Dragons himself. "lol love it"
OMG!!!
Was it really him? Was it an assistant? A roadie? Some girl he picked up two shows ago? Who cares! It was good.
Sometimes, when you're almost sixteen, life can be very good indeed.
It's March 19th in New England and we have yet another snow day. After sleeping in and grumbling a bit, my teenage daughter settled herself on the TV room couch. My husband is (yet again) shoveling and I'm working in my home office.
But, my teen is not exactly alone; she has her iPhone and my iPad.
These days, it seems like the age-old divide between adolescents and their parents can be measured in personal electronic devices. Yes, I own as many as my daughter does, but they are not my lifelines (or more like additional limbs) as they seem to be for her.
When I was fifteen, the only new-fangled technology I owned was a Sony Walkman and a Texas Instruments calculator — both of which I cherished, BTW. If I wanted to watch something, I used my parents' TV. If I wanted to listen to music, I did so via cassette tapes and vinyl records, just like my mom and dad did. But that's where the common ground stopped.
At fifteen, music plays a critical role in helping us define who we are. In a recent New York Magazine story (Why You Truly Never Leave High School), Laurence Steinberg, a Temple University developmental psychologist and expert on adolescence, explained it this way:
“... no matter how old you are, the music you listen to for the rest of your life is probably what you listened to when you were an adolescent.”
Puberty and adolescence are the periods when our brains sort us into the categories that determine the type of person we are. "I'm the type of person who does this. I'm the sort of person who likes that." And then it follow us ever after. As Steinberg relates to himself, “There’s no reason why, at the age of 60, I should still be listening to the Allman Brothers.” But, at an earlier, impressionable, formative age, he determined that he was "the type of person who likes the Allman Brothers." And the rest, as they say, is history.
These days, my daughter is all about Imagine Dragons. This morning, she approached me with great excitement because the band has published (online, of course) its upcoming concert schedule. This summer at Boston University, but not open to the public. ("Arrrrrrrgh! Mom! Dad! Who do we know at B.U.?") December in Columbus, Ohio. (Errr ... no, despite the presence of our best friends there, we are not going to spend $1,000 on airfare to see a concert on a school night.) And, some future date that I can't remember in Paris. (Okay, that one I might consider ... Not.)
I asked her, reasonably enough, if they are her favorites now because she got to see them live a few weeks ago. She said they would be her favorites anyway.
Her love runs deep.
Mine does not.
Frankly, like countless mothers before me, I don't get it. I know — I'm vaguely aware of, would be a more appropriate choice of words — some of their songs. "It's Time" was covered on Glee, and "Radioactive" has a bizarre video with a gangster Lou Diamond Philips and a bunch of Muppets on crack. I am by no means an expert.
But, that's okay.
Frankly, I don't have to like her music. Just like my parents didn't have to like mine (although, in truth, my mom and dad were way cooler than the average moms and dads back then). I don't get the music, but I do get the feeling. And that feeling will stay with my teenager long past her teen years. Just like Steinberg, I'm a focus group of one that proves this.
What's in my car right now?
Eagles: The Very Best Of
Janis Ian Between the Lines
Billy Joel, Greatest Hits Volume I and II
Elvis Costello, My Aim is True
Carly Simon Hotcakes
The Best of the Commodores
Changes 1 Bowie
And, as always, a lot of Elton John.
This selection is more a snapshot of a moment in time than loyalty to a particular genre, artist or style. Most of these CDs would not please either my husband or my child. But, when I'm alone and I hit "Play," I am instantly transported to my teens — an emotional period, certainly, but one that was filled with hopes and dreams and expectations that have faded over the past 35 years.
Until, that is, I hit "Play."
Dearest reader, if you have been following "Lovin' the Alien" for a while, you already know that I am a heavyweight contender for the Mother of the Year Award.
Let's see ... there was the pilgrimage to New York, through a blizzard and with three tweens in tow, to worship at the altar of Glee's Darren Criss. (Audible sigh.) There were early morning horse shows and late nights of homework. Countless trips to the mall. Perpetual backbends to provide my daughter with the latest technology and gigantic, costly, time-consuming pets.
All while trying to maintain my sense of humor — and my sanity.
Well, this week I added another selfless act of martyred mommy to my list. Let me set the stage so you can fully appreciate my generous — dare I say, saintly — parental spirit.
We spent February break down in New Orleans. A fantastic vacation, but not exactly a restful one. Too much food (too much wonderful food!), miles of walking through the French Quarter, Garden District and along the mighty Mississippi, lots of excitement. Thanks to a couple of delayed flights, we got home after one a.m. on Friday night (or, Saturday morning, I guess). Less than twelve hours later, I headed down to New York to see my actress sister in a play. The next night, I had to stay up through the bitter end of The Oscars, then a bus back to Boston, laptop in hand, multitasking all the way.
I was pooped. (We've already established that I'm no spring chicken.)
What would I have liked to do that evening? A warm bath, a cozy chair and a book in front of the fire. A chance to regroup, recoup, get ready for the truncated week ahead.
Hell to the no. Instead, I was stuck in Boston for another six hours while my teenage daughter went to her first ... wait for it ... CONCERT!
"Imagine Dragons" at the House of Blues on Lansdowne Street. OMG!
Here's what my daughter did: took the T into town with her BFF, had a burrito at Q'doba, stood online with hundreds of other excited teens until the doors opened at the House of Blues, rushed for some real estate close to the stage, screamed and danced and took iPhone pictures and videos of two opening acts and then did the same again for the stars of the night: Imagine Dragons. When it was all over, she bought a tee shirt and got a ride home.
Here's what her father and I did: chauffered said daughter and friend from T stop to Kenmore Square, killed an hour in the B.U. bookstore, met sympathetic friends for dinner at an Irish pub (thank you thank you thank you!), hung out in a by now deserted sports bar, watched the exodus of tired, near-deaf yet strangely elated teenagers, finally spotted our own and took them home.
As so often happens, I was reminded of my own concert days. I think my first was Elton John at Madison Square Garden. And, I was probably about my daughter's age. That initial show was followed by others: Fleetwood Mac, John Denver, Chicago, KISS (really). Because it was New York though, I could travel to the shows via public transportation and take a taxi home. Also, tickets were something like $16. And we weren't allowed to use cameras or "recording devices." Of course, we didn't care because there was no Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter.
Times have changed.
The next morning, my daughter was still flying high. She had been duly warned that any attitude would result in a "No concerts ever again!" edict. So, despite an almost total lack of sleep on a school night, things were very pleasant.
Two days later was another story. But I'll save that for ... another story.
