10:17 am | 14 February 2003 | big girls don't cry

So, last night Tape and Solitaire came into town to see the Donnas, Rooney, and Ok Go. Lost in a sea of bouncy, slim-hipped, tiny-tshirt-wearing junior Trixies, I have rarely felt so profoundly haggard.

It was a screaming teenage girlfest, replete with rampant Hot Topic-ness and stuff (I am too tired to describe the entire hoo-ha; and anyway, i'm sure you know what i mean). I watched Rooney for two songs--just long enough to make sure that they are, indeed, violently ripping off both the Monkees and the first Weezer album, even down to the moves and appearance of Tape's teen dream beauhunk, Robert Carmine (somewhere Davy Jones is pissed: "He stole my look!"). Koo and i found a place to sit near the back of the Metro's top floor. At this time, a short, balding man in a red warm-up jacket approached.

"Can I take a picture?" he said, brandishing a large, fancy camera my way. I squinted at him suspiciously. "I'm from teenVogue, and I'm taking pictures of fashion at different scenes." He hungrily eyeballed my weird hat, surly expression, and cream-colored legwarmers as he handed me a business card. I continued to regard him dubiously. "I'm not exactly a teen," i said. He seemed surprised (it must have really been dark in there). "Really? How old are you?" "Twenty-four," i said, tilting my head so the single beam of smoke-ridden light from the large and ugly MGD sign would dance daintily over my undereye bags. "Oh, really?" he said, sounding both shocked and condescending simultaneously. "I'm sorry. It's just that the cutoff age is 23. You're too old." He walked away, in search of some nubile clotheshorse to shoot.

I am too old for teenVogue, i thought to myself.

Dear Teen Vogue [i refuse to bow to your ridiculous typographical whims],
I find myself dismayed and confused by your weird age restriction, as described above, when your cover girl, Gwen Stefani, is nine years older than I am--thirty-three--and when, i am sure, neither your staff nor the designers you feature are teen-aged. It is the responsibility of those in your industry to create and manage trends and 'looks,' but such a weight cannot be borne by slender nymphet* shoulders; in addition, the adolescent need for conformity doesn't generally support sartorial innovation--which is possibly why your photographer had trouble finding 'interesting looks' (as he put it) among the acceptably-aged crowd (98% of whom, i might add, were wearing jeans). Plus, you made me feel totally cadaverous and dilapidated, and that hurt my feelings. I suppose i will have to take comfort in the fact that, unlike your audience, i can soothe my dismay with a beer.
kind regards,
Claudia the Elder.
* I feel compelled to footnote this reference, since 'teens' generally haven't read Nabokov.

Baugh. Anyway. I was going to mention that Ok Go did a pretty respectable cover of "Panic" (teens: this is a song by a band called the Smiths, who were making really, really good music right about the time you were born), and that the Donnas were admirably, decently, wonderfully normal-sized and fully present and clearly delighted to rock, and there were all these freaky Chester Molester-type middle-aged pervy men leering at them [the Donnas], and even that afterwards Robert Carmine was signing autographs outside the hall. Tape totally froze up, but I (who am probably five years older and six inches taller than the pocket-sized dreamboat) saved the day. "It's for my sister," I said, shoving the cd in his face with a pen. He looked at me, confused. "You have really, really exceptionally shiny hair," I said to him, confusing him further. Then, as Tape showed no emotion whatsoever (read: she was freakinhg quietly but has commanded me to say nothing of that little episode), I felt proud i could make her dream come true. I was going to mention all of these things, and more. But I am too tired. Extreme old age will do that to a person, you know. The nurse is here with my Metamucil, and I find I must retire. Goodnight, whippersnappers. clm.

"DUDE YOU"RE GOING TO MOTHER FUCKING GET IT. i was breathing in an totally normal fashion! although its 'creative nonfiction,' its also LIES. i dont like that, its slander, sending the wrong idea that i'm some crazy 15-year old nsync-er who shits when they see celebrities. i didnt mother fucking cry. ITS FICTION AND IF YOU WANT A REAL DESCRIPTION TO GO TO MY DAMN WEBSITE."