90's Rewind Part Three: Smashing Pumpkins

So, I am sitting in mon apartement with a nice glass of wine, peering anxiously at my popcorn-littered floor. See, I had my second annual Fireworks Party on Saturday and - judging from the mess - it, like the first one you may remember here, was a success. And like last time, I have waited a good few days to clean it. Meh. So I have a few bugs crawling around on my floor. If I keep the popcorn there long enough, they might eat it all up and I won't have to vacuum.



Party Time - J-School girls reunited (and it feels so good)


The Rockstar, Austen, Lauren and Work Dude


Fireworks over Vancouver


Nothing like Jaeger, straight out of the bottle


so much silliness (or booze?)


My scary-ass elevator ate Robyn!


No wonder she looks a bit traumatized here

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So anyway, what I was trying to say was that I am sitting here with a nice glass of cheap-ass wine, staring at my grubby floor AND listening to the new Smashing Pumpkins CD. Phew, took me a long time to get to that point, didn't it?

It's interesting though, how I've sorta come full circle after all these years. I know I was recently talking how I feel like I am back in the 90's...starting with all the Smashing Pumpkins playing on Sirius's 90's Alternative Channel (speaking of, they really should start paying me for freakin' plugging it all the time). Then I find myself getting tickets to the Pumpkins in September. And then my bf lends me the new Smashing Pumpkins CD and as I sit here and listen to it, I can't help but think how much it rocks (song 4 is especially good)...and how much it reminds me 1996. In a really good way.

Such as the last time I went to a Smashing Pumpkins concert....

The ticket above was my way into the Melancholy Tour. They were playing in Seattle, so my friend and I had convinced my mother to drive us all the way down there for the night just so my 14-year old ass could attend.

However, we were not just ordinary fans. We were nutjobs. We researched which hotel the Pumpkins liked to stay in. We were in full-on groupie mode.

So I begged my mom to let us stay at The Four Seasons. Best thing ever.

The minute we walked in the place, a tall bald man in black and a woman with black hair walked out. I wasn't really paying attention to them but when my mother (embarassingly) asked the doorman whether the band was staying here or not, he just pointed past us, at the goth-looking couple walking down the street and said, "That's Billy Corgan and Courtney Love right there."

Well, our jaws dropped and we raced up to our rooms, threw our stuff on the bed and demanded that we peruse the streets of downtown Seattle...you know, to pick up our tickets from the box office...not to...stalk...a certain someone.

My mother obliged (she knew what was good for her) and off we went.

We didn't see them.

But we did see that some crazy people had already started lining up for the concert. Even though it was 4 hours away. Well, not to be outdone (and not willing to have a crappy spot in the theatre) I suggested we do it too.

My mother wasn't having any of it. She thought it was silly to leave us alone on a cold, dreary downtown Seattle street. I thought she was silly for missing my point. That's how 14-year old logic works. Like clockwork.

So, about a block away from the theatre, I stop and decide to have an outright hissy fit.

I'm yelling and I'm pleading at my mom, shaking in my cargo pants and doc martins, while my friend is standing to the side and looking uncomfortable.

She's also hissing: "Shhhhh. Shut up. Shut up now. Shut up now. OMG, shut up!"

I ignore her and continue to spazz in public until she elbows me in the side just as two people walk past us.

A tall bald man and a woman with black hair.

I shut up in mid-sentence and turn to watch them go and GET THIS:

BILLY FREAKIN' CORGAN actually looks over his shoulder at me and LAUGHS.

He freakin' laughs at me. Laughs! At ME! Courtney Love looked fairly amused too (though it was hard to tell with her harsh black hair and her collagen snarl). But DAMN, if that's not something, I don't know what is.

I made a fool of myself in front of my beloved Billy Corgan. My purpose on this planet was complete.

Well that was enough to satisfy me, so we went back to the hotel (more like floated back to the hotel) and then got ready for the concert.

We got there a little early which was good and were happy to see how small the theatre was...it's capacity was only about 2000. If anyone has seen Pearl Jam's Evenflow (or at least I think it was Evenflow...maybe Alive) video where Vedder is hanging off of the balcony, that's the same Moore Theatre.

So even though it would mean standing for an hour, we toughed it out and stood right by the stage until they came on.

Best thing ever.

First of all, Courtney Love was up in the side balcony in a private box, which I thought was pretty cool. She didn't recognize me though. Damn.

Second of all, after all the pushing and shoving from the crowd, we actually ended up at the VERY front, with the railing pushing into our stomachs.

Third of all, they played for about 30 minutes IN THEIR PAJAMAS! Just sitting on stools and playing unplugged to the crowd. And they were honestly just feet away from me. It was.... scrumtrulescent.

After the amazing show (in which, btw, some idiot tried to reanact the Evenflow video and hung from the balcony and fell into the crowd. Corgan was not amused), we raced back to the hotel to see if we could catch the band coming back for the night. We parked ourselves in the lobby, settled in comfy chairs, and waited.

Eventually, Darcy came in. We got all squealy when we saw her and were about to approach her with our pen and paper for an autograph, but she left....and the concierge got suspiscious.

He asked what we were doing here and if we were here to bother the band. We feigned disinterest and convinced him that we were merely waiting for my mom to come out of the bar, which was just around the corner and which loud laughs were constantly coming out of.

After awhile of sitting there though, one of the laughs actually started to sound familiar. Being the big fans we are, we soon deduced that it was the honking laugh of the usually drunk drummer, Jimmy Chamberlain (we were also fans of the SP video Vieuphoria).

Excited at our new discovery, we sat around until we saw Jimmy stumble from around the corner and out of the bar. This was our chance!

We sprinted to the elevator and cut him off at the pass.

Jimmy seemed a bit surprised, but he was very nice and obliging. And drunk. And hiccupping. And didn't even mind when he missed his elevator.

So he signed it, asked if he could keep the pen, got in the next elevator and dissappeared.

Why did he take our pen?

Anyhoo, it didn't matter. We had his autograph, he had my pen and all was right with the world.

Love In An Elevator: living it up while I'm going down

When I first moved into my apartment around 6 months ago, I was a bit aprehensive. Even though I was dazzled by the view of the ocean, the pool on the roofdeck and the location, location, location of downtown Vancouver, there was something a bit...off-putting.

One was the fact that I owned the place. Now this was exciting and I realize how lucky I am to have snapped up property. But its not so much that you own a place...rather, it owns you.

I pay a mortgage instead of rent, which is great. But while you can plead with a landlord about late payments and so on, you can't do so with the bank. In fact, any late payment, even by a few hours, will hurt your credit rating and get the bank thinking about repossesion. Therefore, I always have to make sure I have enough money in my account every two weeks when the payments come out. It's a bit stressful knowing there is no leeway.

Also, because I live in an apartment I am a slave to apartment living and all that it entails. You all know I have a crazy bitch of an apartment manager. You all know I pay very high maintence fees each month. What I don't get is why I'm paying $322 a month for fees when it's winter and the pool isn't being fixed or used. And that the elevators are fucking screwed.

Elevators are scary enough to begin with. I have nightmares about plummeting elevators on a monthly basis. But if you have ever been in mine you'll know they have to be replaced. Not only are they painfully slow but they have gotten slower. I waited 10 minutes the other day for one. TEN MINUTES! Sometimes you can hear it opening and closing on each floor with no one getting on or off. Sometimes you press up and it takes you down. Sometimes the door opens halfway between floors and then gets stuck so you have to contemplate jumping to your possible death or calling the fire department. Sometimes the doors don't open, so you have to contemplate climbing through the roof and then falling to your possible death or calling the fire department.

And now, the button for the lobby in one of the elevators doesn't work, so you have to wait for the other one. Which won't happen since you are already in one and it doesn't understand why you can't use it.

Now, if there is no maintence being done on the pool...and obviously no maintenence done on the elevators (which I think for a 12-storey building is more important than a pool), then why am I forking over such an obscene amount each month? Is it for paint supplies because you painted the outside of my door an ugly poo color the other day? Or is it spent on the buzzer that never seems to work?

The thing is, I would talk to the apartment manager about it but I can't. The conversation would go a little something like this:

Me: "You need to fix the elevators"
Her: "Who are you? You live here? You need fixing, not elevators! Hoochie!"

I've heard other people in the building complain about her and the elevators...maybe I can start a rebellion? Build up a mutiny and thrust that wench right off of the ship..or perhaps down the elevator shaft? But the sad fact is, I pay the fees that I signed on to pay and it's possible that no amount of complaining will do anything about. It's times like this that owning your own place can feel like a ball and chain.

The other thing though, on a more positive note, was that I was bit taken aback by my apartment's size. It is a one room apt, studio, bachelorette pad, whatever you want to call it. Though I had rented a studio before, I was a bit concerned about buying one. Would I find it too small? What if I wanted a roomate or a boyfriend to move in with me (good luck with that), wouldn't it be too cramped?

The answers of course are yes and yes. But despite the fact that it is tiny (though bigger than some one bedroom apartments I have seen), it is also perfectly me (and no, I'm not tiny).

The reason is, ever since I was little, I would spend ages in my room. I never ventured out to family areas or living rooms or kitchens. In fact I cherished my solitude so much, I wanted the kitchen in my bedroom. Well, now the kitchen is in my bedroom...and so is my living room and dining room. In fact, it's basically like I have one ginormous bedroom which suits me just fine.

Sure it gets cluttered and my storage closet is overflowing and I'm running out of cupboard space and I wish I had more walls for my pictures and it's hard to fit two people in the bathroom (but it can be done!). But at least it's not one of those studios that has a kitchen slash bathroom. No one wants to pee and cook at the same time.

I also just bought a flat-screen TV over the weekend which amps up the cool factor just a wee bit.

The TV isn't that big, but neither is my apartment and for just me, myself and I, it suits me just fine.