The Hanson Affair

Yesterday was a good day.

Though it's funny to think that yesterday actually started out as a misery since I couldn't get to sleep. Not out of excitement for the possibility of seeing the band I've held a torch for, and defended adamantly these past 10 years, but because the Harry Potter Event of '07 kept me up until 5am when I read it, and my sleeping pattern got really screwed up.

Since it was 6 am, I decided it was better if I didn't fall asleep. Going to sleep now would have been suicide for my first real chance in 10 years to get an autograph that I so desired.

Now, I know it's entirely possible to send a letter to the proper places to get an autograph, but getting an autograph by mail is, in my opinion, just sheer laziness. I always liked hearing autograph stories, and being able to see them write their names and to, dare I dream, shake their hands in person, is a much more worthy experience. It also means I get to get out of my house all day, which I don't always do since I can't always find an excuse.

At 9am I watched my favorite 9am morning show. It was really just luck that they happened to be on. My luck in seeing Hanson on TV or just randomly checking their website on the even of a new album release or something else exciting, is nothing sort of miraculous. In fact luck was how I even got into them at first.

In a sad chapter in my life (the chapter would probably be titled "Empy Bus Stop" if I even wrote book about my life) my grandmother had a stroke. When it happened I was in utter shock. The after school, I waited at the bus stop which was sincerely lacking my grandmother, whom, after a misstep on my part, always made sure I got on the right bus to get home. It had been months since that incident, and I knew what bus to get on (and know that bus's route better than any other bus), but she still insisted on coming, buying me lunch (since Wednesday's were half days), and making sure I got on the right bus. At that moment when she wasn't there, I suddenly realized how this small little routine was something I deeply cherished, and tried not to cry all the way home.
Depressed I went up to my room and changed clothes. It was too silent, and so I did the only seinsible thing and turned on my stereo. I couldn't find a CD I wanted to listen to, and Classic Rock wasn't doing it for me, so I fiddled with the stations, something I never did, and found z100 - which was, at the time, the best source for pop music for a pre-teen who needed to be in the know. I'm sure it still is the premiere source for all things popular, but since the music scene has changed from some good music, mostly homogeneous music, and rap songs that were, while not my taste, unique, dance worthy, mostly fun to pretty god awful music, scenester "rock" groups that really aren't all that talented, and homogeneous rap songs that are only entertaining to people like my friend and I are who listen to things for their lyrics. The lyrics of these aren't good, only funny in how bad they are. But, back then I listened to it for the first time in my life, and a song had just ended. I could tell because something was fading out into that .03 seconds of dead air before a new song. The song that came on was "I Will Come to You".
It was even greater luck that I saw the music video for "I Will Come to You" - it was Thanksgiving, and my grandma was still in the hospital. It wasn't that we usually spent Thanksgiving with her, it was that she was still in the hospital, and we couldn't call her. And this had all happened a few days, maybe even a week after my birthday. That's when I turned MTV on, just a few minuted before we had to leave for my Aunt's house for dinner (which is a whole other point to write about). It was involuntary. I was probably hoping to see the video, but it was nothing conscious in my mind. I did see the video, and it did make me cry - not a long, loud drawn out cry, but that soft, wiping tears from you face cry - because the whole premise was a girl going to her grandmother's.
So my friends, it was not "MMMBop" that made me tune into Hanson, but rather, by accident, hearing a slow, melancholy song, that acted like a reassuring friend in my time of need, that made me into a teeny-bopper. And yes, I was a teeny-bopper.

I watched their performance on the show, and went to take a shower and get changed. I found out the night before that they would be performing in the city to promote their new CD, released that day, as long as I bought the CD.

I called my best friend to see if she wanted to come to the city with me. I knew she wouldn't want to see Hanson. She hates them. I don't know why, and often I try to sneak in here and there a few of their later songs, which have matured in sound and nature and are much better - they remind me so much more of the classic rock I grew up on.
Somehow she always catches me.

It was with a bit of disdain that I snapped on a purple wristband, marking me, basically, as "late" and, maybe even "unworthy". I could only get the CD signed, I wouldn't be able to get to see them perform, which I was only able to see once in my life - At the Continental Airlines Arena, 9 years ago.

It was a good night of course, and getting to hear them live was a treat, and my present for graduating from 8th grade. I went with my other Hanson-fan friend (Hanson being the only thing that our friendship was really about), and practically freaked out when, at the end of the show, they took out water guns, and I was lucky enough to get a few drops on my Hanson shirt. It was funny, but all through that night I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was the first time I knew what it meant to feel that. My inclinations on feeling that I'm being watched have always been spot on, so I wonder still, to this day, who was it that gave me a weird paranoid feeling when I wasn't paying attention. The little fangirl in me says that it was Isaac - who had the unfortunate distinction of being the only person to turn their head away as I looked up. I know it wasn't. I stopped dreaming and wishing it was a long time ago. But until the day I die, I will always remember the concert.

But, the purple wristband did mean I could get my CD signed. I have wanted an autograph for 10 years. Paying, and leaving, my friend and I walked around Chinatown, and got a nice lunch and bubble tea, until I went back up town. We discussed such things as Role playing, whether love is merely biological, or if there's something more to it, our opinions on our friends' selected significant others, what we should do for Halloween, and, of course, Harry Potter.

Before we went our separate ways, she asked me about what I wanted them to write on my CD. I gave it a few moments thought and realized that, while it was highly unlikely I'd be able to get my CD personalized, since there were going to be a lot of people there, I'd want them to personalize it with either "Jillers" "Keep on Keepin' on" various references to me being awesome, or else have them write something like "U R liek TTLY G8" or something else stupid like that.

I took my position at the end of the line - around the corner and by a small restaurant called "Le Marais Rotisserie" which reminded me of some of the small cafe's I'd seen in France. I went over to look at the menu, noted the prices as being something I'd expect from a Midtown "Trying to French" restaurant.

I waited online for about 5 hours, writing 19 pages worth of story, and found myself thinking "I should tell than 'thank you' since this has been like my most prolific day in writing history."
There was an odd dream-like feel about the whole thing. I tried to get a picture of the band, though I was less interested in that than a random water bottle I found, and subsequently kept. It was empty, which meant, as someone who is cheap and hasn't gotten to start their new job yet, I could stop at a water fountain and have free water (which actually tastes better than pricey bottled water). Soon, I became disinterested in getting a picture of Hanson, and more intent on getting cool pictures of the crowd there. The huge crowd interested me because, even though I'm a Hanson fan, I assume that there's only about 20 of us in any given area. I didn't realize, cynically so, that they still drew a huge crowd.

I kept my iPod on through the whole line process, the girls behind me were crying and shaking and screaming. The people in front of me were a rather lovely-dovey couple that I preferred to not here, and I just, generally, don't deal well in spaces occupied by thousands of people. Had I been there to see the show, I'd have coped better, but I know my limitations, which involve me not taking very well to people surrounding me, and me not being able to escape. It's some sort of phobia. I'm pretty sure it falls somewhere under the heading of Agoraphobia. Thankfully I don't get panic attacks. If I'm not in a crowded public setting where I'm in the midst of a crow with someone I know, I tend to space out. All logical thought goes from my head, and I notice things that aren't the people around me. My breathing also changes. Not in a big hyperventilating type way, just a small, subtle "I'm breathing faster" type way. I also tend to start to sweat. I don't know if that's due to the fear, or because with so many people jammed into one space, air conditioning or not, it's going to get really hot.

Besides my very slight phobia, I also hadn't slept in over 24 hours, nor had I eaten in about 10 hours. I was grumpy. I noticed a lot of people had their CDs out, or he booklets in the case out to a certain page. I had wanted each one to sign one place each - one on the back of the CD front case - so that I'd see it, all backwards, and through the cover, one on a page in the booklet, randomly opened, and one on the CD itself. I had a really good reason for that, but it seemed like I wouldn't be able to get that. And the body guard was saying how they'd only sign one thing, and wouldn't personalize anything. I fumbled through the booklet for the spot that was best for three autographs that I had seen other people open up to - the center picture of all three of them spread across two pages. I stowed my writing book in my pants - the way that I do, with one cover, literally, down the front of my pants, and the other one hanging outside. I fumbled with the book until I was up there, and, of course, didn't say anything.

First was Taylor, who smiled and asked how I was. A witter, calmer, almost home and far removed from the excitement of the day, would have said something like "I don't know - a bit blase about the whole thing" or said something about needing to wash off the layer of grime I always seem to build up when I come to the City. But no, I did that "Fine, how are you?", with this huge, dumb ass smile on my face. Separated from the crowd I could breath. Faced with these people - my age - who are a million times more talented than I could ever hope to be, whose music helped me through a really hard time in my life, I could only smile and think in the back of my head that "They're really here, and really shaking my hand".

They smiled the way I'm sure they smiled at all their fans, but it wasn't a "Smile for the cameras" smile. Their smiles, their hand shakes, all of it was genuine. It seems stupid to think that I could be able to tell people apart from their handshakes, but, no, I can.

On Easter when my cousin brought over her boyfriend for the family to meet, and I shook his hand, my instinct was 'Con artist'. He may not have been a con artist, but he was a dick in the end. Handshakes are a way to tell people apart. And I know the handshakes I don't like.

My words were all "thankyous" and smiles, smiles I couldn't control and have rarely experienced, and I shook their hands, and it was a moment that was electric. Shaking hands with someone famous is a connection to that person. I don't know how other people feel at that moment, but at that moment I realized how very real these men were, and how they are very real people. They'll go to wherever they're staying, and probably tuck their children into bed, and kiss their wives goodnight. Being as religious as it seems that are, they'll probably take a few moments out of the night to thank God and offer up a prayer which, at their ages now, and having had the opportunity to explore the world and cultures I've only ever read about, will be genuine. Maybe they'll read a book, maybe they'll just fall asleep, holding their loves close to them.

I walked out then, I felt happy and relieved, and, while I walked the same, I felt like I was skipping. I didn't want to hold up the line and have one of their guards move me along. I got what I came for, and was thankful for it. The autographs I waited 10 years for.

But, I'll wait for another opportunity. My obsession with famous people has nothing to do with lust, or greed, but a sincere interest in being their friends. Not so I can say "I'm friends with so and so" but because their public lives are so public that people forget they have a private life. That life is so special to famous people, and autographs and pictures make us think that, for a brief moment, we were part of it. I take out my picture of me and Hugh Jackman and say "I met him" as if really saying "I know him". I look at my autographs from the Hansons, and say "I got their autograph" which really means "I looked them in the eye and spoke to them, and they, for a minute saw me and nobody else".

While I didn't get any pictures of the brothers, I'm ok with that. I figured out long ago that pictures are so we can tell other people where we've been, and who we've seen. Given the opportunity, I'll take a picture, but the real memento, for me, is the memory. The memory stays long after I'd lose the photo, and it's not the photo that makes me smile, it's that one, small moment, the one where they look you in the eye and offer out their hand.