Pop Counterculture

APA Heart Bitch

2006-04-28T09:37:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, Ashley Parker Angel was off to an amazing start as a performer. He and his blindingly white smile were the key ingredient in a half-assed, over-produced collection of pop wannabes - none of whom, ironically enough, had even an eighth of an ounce of pure pop in their blood - that, miraculously, worked for about five minutes.

I've often wondered if any of the members sold their soul(s) to Satan for that favor. In retrospect, the phenomenon is even more baffling than it was then. But, whatever. Good for them.

Startlingly and unseemingly feasible or not, the five-pack was a national sensation in the summer of 2001. They were unoriginal, to say the least - NKOTB re-visited, even. Regardless, they were introducing millions of previously innocent pre-teen girls, and maybe even a few 20-somethings with a weird fetish for spiky hair and good hand-crotch coordination, to multitudes of liquid dreams.

They were O-Town!

And then, a few short months later...they weren't.

And then, we kind of forgot about them and went, "Ooooh, who's this Nelly guy, and why is he singing about CoCoa Puffs?"

And then, one day, we turned on MTV and went, "Whoa. Is that...?"

And, yes! Yes, it was, indeed, Damien Fahey.

But then, somewhere in between Road Rules/Real World Challenge XXVIII and that weird hour-long block of MTV programming around 3:30 a.m. where they actually play music videos, we noticed this familiar-looking guy. We thought he was unnaturally attractive, and we kind of wondered why on earth he was passing out flyers in front of a fast food restaurant when, clearly, all he wanted to do was sing his little heart out.

And then, we went, "Holy crap, that's Ashley Parker Angel."

And then, he said, "Damn straight, I'm Ashley Parker Angel, and you're ALL going to know it!"

And then, to prove his point, he went on a radio tour to promote his forthcoming CD. In this:

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that, surely, Ashley Parker Angel wouldn't dare tool around the country in a tour bus that has a 12-foot picture of his face on the side of it.

But, yes. He would. He did. He is.

Intern Alana and I stood mutely, watching the monstrosity as it chugged indiscreetly up Not-So-Incognito Avenue. "That's his face," she whispered, as the bus circled our block.

"That is his face," I agreed.

"That's a big face, Mysti. I'm scared of it. Do you think HE'S that big in person?!"

I shook my head. "He can't be. If his head were actually that large, he'd never get the rest of his body into the bus."

"That is true," Alana conceded. "Oh my GOD!" she screeched suddenly, grasping my arm. "What if the inside is like the outside?"

My eyes widened at the notion. "What if he has pictures of himself all over the walls?"

"What if in his shower, each individual shower tile is a different picture of him?!"

"What if his shower DOOR is like a naked lady cup!" I exclaimed. Alana eyed me quizzically. "You know, a naked lady cup! Like, he's there on the door in a towel, but when he takes a shower and it gets all steamy in there, the towel disappears, and he's NAKED!"

We both whipped our heads around to undress Ashley with our eyes as he stepped down from the big, face-adorned bus of shame, and shyly studied his surroundings. "We have got to get a tour of that bus," I hissed.

"YES, WE DO."

I quickly approached Ashley before any of the "official" people could get to him, and said, "Hi! I'm Mysti! I'm going to be interviewing you in a bit, but it's necessary that I get a tour of the bus first." He gave me an odd smile. "You know, they make me do that. Otherwise, I wouldn't ask." Ashley cocked an eyebrow. "It's...prototype."

"ProtoCOL," Alana inserted.

"Yes, that."

He eyed us up for a moment before moving aside to let us onto the bus. Alana and I scurried up the steps, anxious to see what wondrous Ashley Parker Angel adorned wonders lay inside, and were disappointed to see that it looked just like a regular old tour bus. A few fast food bags lying around. Television playing. Some iPod-listening idiot half-hanging out of a bunk, unaware that he had company.

There were a few notable oddities, though. Usually, tour buses smell like a combination of beer and pot. This one smelled more like vanilla and...applesauce, maybe? There was also an impressive stack of Little Golden Books on the shelf. I realize that musicians aren't often all that bright, but even with that in mind, I was taken aback.

"Um, hi?" came a voice from behind us.

Alana and I whirled around to find her standing there.

Tiffany.

So pretty.

So happy.

So fashionable.

And such. A. BITCH.

"Who are you two?"

She looked the two of us up and down, side to side, forwards and backwards, then propped her hand up on her hip and looked to Ashley for some explanation.

"She's doing the interview, babe," he said, in a rather exhausted sort of way. Apparently, he's used to dealing with her rigid inquiry.

We smiled at Tiffany and politely extended our hands. She gaped at the gesture, and then recoiled as though we had offered her a steaming pile of dog poop.

"Right," I said, withdrawing my hand.

"So, what do you think of the bus?" Ashley asked cheerfully, holding his arms out in a grand gesture.

Bless his heart. He was actually proud of it.

"It's nice," I said. "I especially like the reading material."

"Oh, the Little Golden Books? They're for Lyric."

"Lyric? Like, song lyrics?"

"Like, our child!" Tiffany snapped.

Ashley, Alana and I stared numbly at one another, and the tension mounted at an unbearably fast pace. Seriously, though, how I was supposed to know that they'd given their kid some weird, hippy name?

"So..." I started, just to break the silence. "Shall we go in, now?"

"Yes!" Ashley and Alana said simultaneously, making a break for the door.

When we got upstairs to the studio, and everyone was settled into their appropriate places, I watched Tiffany wrinkle her nose at each and every person in the room, as though we were unfit to breathe the same air that she was breathing, when the truth was that the air was unfit for any of us to breathe, thanks to her designer imposter body spray.

I wanted to hit her. Hard. And maybe kick her skinny ass up and down the hallway a few times. I wasn't sure that Ashley would concede to interview with me if I did that, though, so I just took a deep breath and launched in.

I brought the tour bus up almost immediately, and the former boy-bander laughed about it. "Yeah, it's a little hard to creep up someone in that thing," he chuckled.

I grinned knowingly. "Intern Alana and I had a few decorating tips for the inside of the bus."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

So, I proceeded to tell him about my Ashley Parker Angel "naked lady cup" idea. He blinked at me, clearly stunned. Then, a slow smile spread across his angelic little face, and a hearty chortle bubbled up. It was a matter of seconds before he was amused by the idea in a very visible and audible way.

"Hahaha! Oh my God, that is - "

He turned, mid-sentence, to glance at Tiffany, and her death rays struck him from the side. Ashley was propelled from his seat by the sheer force of the hatred. Everyone in the room ducked as she reloaded and aimed the murderous gaze at me. I held my hands up in front of my face, but it wasn't enough. The beams singed my palms, and I could only scream in pain and fall to my knees while my skin melted and ran down my arms.

Her point made, Tiffany stood up, flipped her hair, and stalked out of the room.

Everyone in the room gasped in horror as Ashley and I both stood slowly. He shrugged apologetically at me while I stared forlornly at my burns. Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Alana sprinted from the room and returned with a first aid kit, then set about bandaging my hands.

"Go too far with the shower comment, did I?" I asked finally.

"Maybe," he answered.

"She's crazy, Ashley."

"Yeah, she is."

"I can't believe you're going to marry her."

"I can't believe she's going to marry me," he replied. Alana and I exchanged befuddled glances. He just raised his eyebrows at us. "I was in O-Town, man. I take what I can get."

He does have a point...

Still. What a bitch.

4-F***ing-Ever!

2006-02-20T09:24:00.000-08:00

Holy crap, I really DID go and break Coldplay up!

...reports deferred to rumors that the other three members of Coldplay were unhappy about the amount of attention directed at Martin...

Of course, "...and the fact that Chris Martin runs his mouth in solo interviews and then doesn't tell the other guys what he said, thus forcing Guy Berryman to be totally stumped when talking to Mysti" is the unspoken part, here.

Seriously, I'm like a curse. Are you really going to try and tell me that there's no connection to my raving about Love Monkey and its cancellation? I simply don't believe it.

At least there's something we can try and do about the show. I'm afraid the fate of Coldplay, however, will be subject to Chris Martin's whims. (When you consider that the man was crazy enough to name his child "Apple," though, it certainly doesn't inspire confidence.)

Okay, moving on.

I've been haunting The Veronicas for several months now in an effort to get them in-studio for the show. It's amazing just how far the annoyance factor will actually go these days. Nine times out of ten, if someone thinks they can shut me up for a consecutive five-minute stretch, they'll cater to me. Note the number of Click Five interviews on the PCC iPod page. Proof enough. And my tactics worked just as well on the Aussie twins, as I suspected they would. They dropped by, stayed for an entire show, and we had a gay old time. Hanging out with those two is always an adventure.

The Veronicas were at my radio station this past summer, a couple of months before anyone would know who they were, but because of my on-air hours, I was unable to meet them. I did, however, manage to catch a snippet of the broadcast where they performed live on the air, and I was blown away, to say the least - especially once I heard from the morning show that both were under five feet tall and maybe pushing 85 lbs. To think of such huge voices coming from the mouths of such tiny little creatures was fairly unfathomable.

It also occurred to me that my co-workers just might be exaggerating. Embellishment runs in wide rivers through my building. The people I work with are all full of...somethin'.

The first time that I came face to face with The Veronicas, though, I have a feeling that I might have ogled a little more than is socially acceptable. They were indeed miniscule. Gorgeous, but itty bitty. And not only were they aesthetically bewitching little pygmies, but holy hell, the mouths on these girls (which is what I attribute most of my gaping to)! Not that I've never heard curse words before - indeed, I even endorse the use of the harsher adjectives at times - but you, too, would be nonplussed to hear f-bombs being dropped right and left from these two innocent-looking sprites:

Look at them! Those are two of the sweetest little faces that you will ever in your life see, and the same sweet little faces that these two use to get in the door before they lay the verbal smackdown on your unsuspecting ass.

I was in Chicago at the time of our initial encounter, and the second that I entered their dressing room, I heard, "Oh my God, I am so f---ing hungry!"

I blinked, looked around the corner, and saw Veronica #1 - and more power to you if you can actually tell them apart - grinning at me. She extended one hand and covered her mouth with the other. "Hi! I'm sorry! My mouth is full!"

"No problem," I replied, wondering if what I'd heard before was more a figment of my imagination than anything.

"Oh, man, this chicken is so f---ing good," I heard from the other end of the room. I turned to find Veronica #2 standing there with a plateful of food. She laughed and gave me a friendly grin, identical to the one I'd received from her sister. "Oh, s--t, I'm sorry! I didn't realize anyone was in here! Hi!"

I was almost positive, then, that I'd stumbled into an alternate universe of some sort. For not only were these two miniature, child-like beings cursing up a storm, they were also eating enough food to sustain a small Third World country for several months. In the real world, metabolisms are just not that kind.

Do keep in mind that the information I'm giving you about The Veronicas should not distract from the fact that Lisa and Jess Origlasso are two of the loveliest human beings that you'll ever come across. They're genuinely kind-hearted girls, they have a beautiful and unfailing twin-ly affection for one another, and I have yet to hear them say anything remotely unkind about anyone.

It just so happens that all of that saccharine goodness is delivered with a multitude of s--ts and f--ks. This is what makes them additionally amusing.

From that first meeting on, I looked forward to interviewing them with a ridiculous amount of glee and anticipation. When my co-worker and I were shipped off to the Radio Music Awards, I was giddy in a rather hysterical sort of way when I saw their names on our interview list.

"Look!" I said, shaking him violently. "The Veronicas."

"You've met them before. What's the big deal?"

"They're so FUN."

"The Veronicas?!" he asked incredulously. I remembered then that the only time he'd been around the two girls was at our station's Christmas show, which they were forced to pull out of when Jess fell ill. They'd still shown at the venue, determined to do the meet and greets and sound check party appearances that they were scheduled for so as not to let down the fans, but obviously, they weren't anywhere close to their normal insane selves. It was all Jess could do to hold her head up, and Lisa had gone into protective sister mode, sticking by her laryngitis-stricken twin's side the entire night. "They seem sort of quiet."

I chuckled. "Brace yourself, naive boy," I whispered as Lisa and Jess approached our table.

At the RMAs, every interview table has a gimmick of some sort. It's how you coerce artists to come talk to your station. The gimmick doesn't have to be all that flashy or expensive, either. You would be surprised how far a few jolly ranchers will go at an event like that. So, we took it one further than the stations around us and provided a bucket full of an array of chocolate wonders - Reese's, Kit Kats, Tollhouse Brownie Bars, etc.

And condoms.

Yes, condoms.

Because, it's Vegas. Why not?

The Veronicas sat down and immediately dug in, plucking pieces of candy from the container, ripping the wrappers off with the kind of urgency an Ethiopian might display. My colleague looked at the two of them, slightly bewildered, which is about the time that the girls found the condoms.

"Trojans!" Jess shouted, extracting one of the packets and tearing into it.

"Mmmmmmmm," Lisa said with a prolonged sniff. "Smell that lubrication!" She spotted her boyfriend, Ryan Cabrera, a couple of tables over, and she began flinging rubbers at him with surprising accuracy. One hit him square in the over-styled head, and he whirled around to see where the offending item had come from.

My co-worker shook his head and leaned over. "Holy s--t," he whispered, "they're f---ing scary."

I patted him on the back, knowing full well from his sailor's response that he and the girls were kindred, and that we would all get along fantastically while writhing about in a completely non-sexual, but sloppy nonetheless, foul-mouthed love fest.

And we did.

Man, I f--king love those crazy girls.

Teddy Geiger is My Love Monkey

2006-01-31T08:29:00.000-08:00

My "industry friends" (translation: fellow radio geeks) and I are totally obsessed with the new CBS show, Love Monkey. We mourn the fact that corporate radio outsiders will never fully understand just how funny the show is.

You will simply have to trust me when I saw that it's beyond accurate. Tom Cavanaugh is a record rep in that show, in every sense of the word. From the sport blazer and trendy knapsack to the duplicitous exchange with celebrities (especially the duplicitous exchange with celebrities)...well, it all flat-out reeks of real record industry game. It is for this reason that I imagine many living rooms look like mine on Tuesday evenings: intimate groups of radio colleagues congregating in rowdy huddles, laughing boisterously - not at the overt witticism, but because we're all thinking, "Man, he's just like that dude at Reprise/Columbia/Warner Brothers/Other Major Record Label!"

And then, there are those of us who are glued to the screen because of Teddy Geiger, who portrays the young, talented, independent label lovin' "Wayne." Liken Tom Cavanaugh's character to Crazy Tom Cruise's character in Jerry Maguire. Teddy is, essentially, his Cuba Gooding, Jr.

(That analogy, of course, was totally unnecessary, but it gave me an excuse to say "Crazy Tom Cruise," which I love to do.)

Anyone who's known me for more than five minutes can immediately spot my musical weakness. There are fewer things that I have more affection for than sensitive, acoustic-guitar-toting types with soft, vulnerable-sounding voices. I fell in love with John Mayer long before I ever laid eyes on him. Jason Mraz and I were married in my mind the second I heard "You and I Both." (Granted, that was before I insulted him. Needless to say, that relationship never quite took off following my unfortunate foot-in-mouth incident.)

Tyler Hilton's terrible taste in women turns me off, so we didn't stay together in my sordid little fantasy world for very long. His music and I are still very much an item, though.

Matt Wertz? Yes, please. Josh Kelley? I'll take seconds!

Naturally, when I heard Teddy Geiger for the first time, I got all googly-eyed, and promptly fell into a catatonic, love-stricken stupor in front of the radio. You can imagine my extreme disappointment to learn that the kid is jailbait. I cried a little bit.

Okay, a lot.

But then, it dawned on me that he has to turn 18 some time. Specifically, September 16th.

Not that I'm keeping one of those sick countdown-to-legality clocks, or anything.

It's more of an involved chart, really.

See?

Never mind.

Age issues aside, I wanted to secure a Pop Culture Countdown interview with Teddy. He seemed like an intelligent kid, and the wealth of talent within him wasn't exactly discreet. So, I emailed his rep (who, surprisingly enough, is nothing like Tom Cavanaugh) to set things up. I received my confirmation within a couple of hours, sent a gracious reply, and as I was marking the date that Teddy was to call me down in my planner, another email from the rep popped up in my in-box.

The subject was, "One more thing..."

Great, I thought agitatedly. There's going to be some weird thing I'm not supposed to ask him about, and then I'm going to be super curious about why I can't ask him about this particular thing, and then I'll end up asking him, and Teddy Geiger will hang up on me and I'll be despondent for the rest of my days.

(I can be slightly dramatic at times, but those who are close to me will say that it's endearing - possibly only because they know I'll kick their asses if they don't, but I prefer to think it's a sincere affection.)

I double-clicked and read, "You do know that he's not legal yet, correct?"

That certainly gave me pause. I knew that my affinity for musicians was well-known in my building, but it never dawned on me that my reputation had preceded me to the point where record reps were finding it necessary to take protective measures on the occasions that I happened to be dealing with their artists.

"I know that he's seventeen," I shot back. "Why?"

The reply was swift. "Just checking. I know how you get."

Well.

I was miffed, but I let it go.

A few days later, I passed my boss in the hallway. "Yo!" he called out in his ultra laid back I'm-cool-you're-cool-we're-all-cool-hey-I-need-you-to-do-something-for-me voice. "Can you work this weekend?"

"No."

"Cool. Hey, are we good on the Teddy Geiger interview? Did you get that set up?"

"Yep. He's calling tomorrow."

The boss-man nodded, then cleared his throat and moved a little closer. His eyes darted up and down the hall, and when he was certain that there was no one within earshot, he spoke again. "You do know that he's a kid, right?" he whispered. "Like, a kid kid. Of the not legal variety."

I stamped my foot and glared. "YES. Why is this even coming up?"

"Because," he said through clenched teeth, "I know how you get."

You would think that it would take a lot more than two utterances to make one loathe a phrase beyond comprehension. But it doesn't.

"How do I get?"

"You know..."

"I don't know, or I wouldn't be asking."

My boss shrugged. "You just get all...you know..."

"Thanks. That clears it up."

Ever the trooper, I rolled my eyes and kept going.

The day of, my phone rang right on time. I'm comfortable admitting that I giggled a little when I heard Teddy's voice.

"Hey, Mysti."

I gathered my bearings and greeted him warmly.

"Oh, hey, before we get started..."

His voice trailed off uncertainly, and I froze, sensing some foreboding in the air. "Yes?"

"I've, uh...been told...that, um-"

"What?"

"Ummm..."

"What, Teddy?" I snapped. "What have you been told?"

"This is really awkward," he sighed. "You seem perfectly nice, but it was suggested to me that I might want to, uh, gently remind you that I'm only seventeen years old."

I glowered at the phone. "Because of 'how I get?'"

"Yeah."

I slammed my planner open angrily, flipped to September, and grabbed a pen. "Let's just get this over with, then. What are you doing September 17th?"

Silence.

"Come on, Teddy, look at your damn schedule! What are you doing on September 17th?"

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

"Perfect. Want to go out on a date? You'll be 18, then."

More silence.

"It's a yes or no question, Teddy!"

"Sure," he answered feebly, though it came out as more of a question than a definitive statement.

I scribbled his name down in the September 17th square and closed the planner. "Cool. Where shall I pick you up?"

"My mom's house, I guess."

"Awesome. I promise not to hit on you between now and then. Now, may we get on with the interview?"

Teddy sniffled on the other end of the line. "Actually, now...I'm a little afraid of you."

A searing anger started boiling deep within, but before it could rise to the top, it was curbed by comprehension. I sat up straight, rigid and wide-eyed at the foot of this great epiphany that young, gentle-but-able-bodied, beautiful little Teddy Geiger had paved my way to:

THAT'S HOW I GET!

Wow. Who knew?

"You've changed me, Teddy," I murmured. "Thank you."

He sat in stupefied silence on the other end of the line for a painfully long while before answering, "You're...welcome?"

"I love you."

"Can I please hang up now?"

"Sure."

(Click.)

I've since received a restraining order, but the good news is that it expires exactly two days before my date with Teddy.

My pretty little love monkey...

College Day at the RMAs

2006-01-18T09:02:00.000-08:00

I've always been frank with you, haven't I? I don't lie.

Okay, well, I rarely lie.

Shut up. Exagerrating is not lying.

Leave me alone.

In any case, I've debunked several radio theories thus far - that VIP passes make you cool, that radio DJs are always guaranteed the backstage rite of passage, that boy band members are as sweet and docile as their syrupy ballads, and, most importantly, that you have to be cool to be in the business (I disprove that every time I open my mouth, as a matter of fact) - and I certainly don't plan to stop now.

I will soften this next blow, though, by first revealing that Santa Claus isn't real. Nor is the Easter Bunny. (The Tooth Fairy is questionable.)

When your favorite radio station goes to "hang out" at some big, prestigious "awards show" because they've received an "exclusive invite" from said "awards show," they are lying. LYING. Right through their teeth. I kid you not! They essentially look you straight in the eye and tell you something that isn't even remotely truthful, half-hoping, half-assuming that you are too stupid to figure out what's really going on.

The ugly truth is that they are one of many stations invited to participate in the event. The awards promoter invites your station, and if your station accepts, they are then expected to run a ridiculous number of commercials promoting that show. In return, your station gets to go to the event and pretend that they're friends with famous people. The whole affair is barely legal.

Radio stations that attend will claim that they're hanging out "backstage," or at an "all access party," but that is also a bold-faced lie. The area that they're talking about resembles college day at a high school.

It's a large, open area with 50+ tables for artists' perusing pleasure, and only the worthy will get the opportunity to recruit. Think of larger markets as Ivy League, and small-market stations as junior schools. Tillamook Bay Community College may be pulling out all of the stops - fancy brochures, gift bags and hors d'oeuvres - but you know damn well that the kids will congregate around the Dartmouth table.

You can gauge where your station falls by the interviews they get. If you hear them chatting up people like Kato Kaelin, Debbie Gibson, or any of the Baldwin brothers whose name doesn't begin with "Alec," then sadly, your favorite station is Tillamook Bay Community College.

(I'll equate my station with my alma mater, Sam Houston State University. We ain't exactly Harvard, but you can put in your four years and little to no effort, and still leave with a fairly respectable degree.)

You can also gauge a musician or actor's status by what colleges they apply to. If someone actually aspires to attend Tillamook Bay, then that person is well aware that their career GPA is embarrassingly low.

There are actors like Jorge Garcia, Kevin Sorbo and Cheryl Hines, who, while they would prefer a Big 10 school, will still settle for an establishment that has a decent football team and passable degree plans.

There are musicians like Eminem and Beyonce, who wait for Yale to offer them full scholarships.

Then, there are people like Jason Dohring. He applies to every single college in the room, hoping against hope that someone - hell, anyone - will accept him so that maybe his mother will stop calling him a lazy, freeloading loser with zero potential and no future.

I don't know that his mother actually says that, mind you. I'm just assuming, here.

My co-worker and I were sitting comfortably at our little table in the back of the room, attempting to enjoy the cold fish and dressing-drenched salad that the Radio Music Awards had so graciously provided for us, when one of the RMA runners (AKA the orientation volunteers) approached us and begged us to interview Jason. "Nobody wants to talk to him and he's about to lose it," she said with a pleading expression. We looked at one another, shrugged, and agreed. We were waiting on an interview with Ryan Cabrera, and figured we had about five minutes to kill before Ashlee Simpson's spiky-headed ex meandered our way.

"C, we're going live with Jason Dohring," my interview partner said into the mic as the actor approached us. He beamed, completely unaware that "C" was not a nickname for the person back at the station, but our code for C-list, and that the board op had been instructed not to even push record for anything lower than B-list. (We may not be Ivy League, but we're high enough up that we can demand a certain level of accomplishment.) It broke my heart a little to see the rekindled hope brewing in his eyes. He was like a cute stray puppy - I desperately wanted to take him in, but unfortunately, I live in an apartment complex with a strict no-pet policy. What can I do, except set a plate of food out for him, pat him on the head, and pray that he eventually finds a good, warm home?

My co-worker, on the other hand, took him in for the night and got caught red-handed.

"Sooooooooooo, here we sit with..."

Jason waited for someone to fill in the awkward pause. I had already forgotten his name, so it certainly wasn't going to be me. "Jason Dohring," he finally answered, visibly miffed.

"Yes! Of the WB's Veronica Mars."

"It's a UPN show."

"Oh." The two death rays being shot in my direction were uncomfortable for everyone at the table, but what could I do? I, not being much of a television person, hadn't seen so much as a preview for the show. Thus, I could not help bail my colleague out. I could, however, keep my own little lifeboat afloat by not saying a word, which is exactly what I did.

I could see that my co-worker was feeling the sting of the day's first interview defeat, but he quickly scanned the interview cheat-sheet (also graciously provided by the RMAs), picked a few key words out, and bravely kept going. "And you play Duncan?"

"Logan."

"What is it like working with Kirsten Ball?"

"Her name is actually Kristen Bell."

"Do you enjoy working on a sitcom?"

"It's more of a drama."

"The show is in its third season, right?"

"Second."

Sinking like a stone, he was.

"You're no stranger to the WB, either. You've been on some other really successful shows, like Roswell and Boston Public."

Jason looked as though he wanted to both bang his head against the table and strangle my workmate, but couldn't figure out which he should do first. "Again, the show I'm currently on is a UPN show, and Boston Public aired on Fox, not The WB."

Silence.

"You want to leave our table, don't you?"

"Very much so."

"Okay. Well...thanks for stopping by, Jared."

"JASON."

"Right."

Needless to say, Jason Dohring withdrew his application. A stellar meal plan couldn't have gotten him on board at that point. In fact, he preferred Tillamook Bay to us. They're small, but I hear the professors there are much more attentive.

Plus, they had hors d'oeuvres. Really, you can't compete with that.

What Happens In Vegas Winds Up On This Blog

2006-01-11T08:51:00.000-08:00

Did you think that I had abandoned you? Did you think that I was never ever coming back to write about my sad little syndication efforts?

Did you even notice that I was gone?

You totally didn't, did you?

Whatever.

Well, I have been. I've been gone for a while, now! But it's only because I've been busy stalking down the likes of The Click Five, The Veronicas, Clay Aiken, Howie Day, Ryan Cabrera, Ashlee Simpson, and more. I'm doing it all for you.

Or, at least that's what I tell myself. The truth is that I shamelessly use this show to get next to people far cooler than I'll ever be, in hopes that their suave existence might rub off on me a little. So far, it hasn't. I'll keep you posted on that, though.

Also, you'll notice that just to the right and down the column a bit, I have added interview downloads. There are also friends-only downloads available at MySpace. I thought it might be a nice audible reference point for the entries. They may or may not have been heavily edited so that I don't sound like a dumbass.

(I'm just sayin'.)

I hope your holidays were fantastic! I spent mine in Houston, being a well-behaved young lady around my family. However, in the days just before Christmas, I was in Las Vegas at the Radio Music Awards. Talk about drunken debauchery galore! If there is one single awards event where celebrities congregate, liquor themselves into either a manic frenzy or catatonic stupor, and perform erratic displays of substance-influenced idiocy - the likes of which tabloids would maim and kill to get photographic evidence of - the RMAs are it.

Or, so I hear.

Buzz Craven, one of my favorite people in the entire world (despite the fact that I see him roughly once every five years), jetted into Vegas from L.A. to experience the madness with me. The whole ordeal is not only celebrity-laden, but also a congregation of radio and label types from all corners of the country, and it's a feeding ground for those of us who like easy targets to sharpen our jaded, sardonic tongues on. It just so happens that Buzz and I are both jaded and sardonic. We also lack what some might say is absolutely necessary to survive in an industry like this: an ego the size of North America. We aren't the type to show up at the RMAs, check in, immediately consider ourselves to be celebrity by association, and head out to the casinos to saunter around with our obnoxious, bright red VIP passes (which serve no purpose other than getting the DJs into RMA-related events, and aren't even necessary for that, as Buzz had absolutely no credentials and walked into everything without receiving so much as a cocked eyebrow) hanging around our necks. There are many, many people who do that, though, and the two of us really enjoyed making fun of those people. Some wore more than one VIP pass, as a matter of fact, to signify their great importance.

We quickly struck up a game of "find the industry folk!" It was almost an unfair undertaking, for the "industry folk" were so easy to find.

On our second day in Vegas (which felt like our second year), Buzz and I stumbled into the Aladdin Starbucks, desperate for a caffeine kick to counteract the effects of our previous late-night casino adventures, where I'm told that I not only assaulted Bryce from Lifehouse, but also made plans to cut some studio tracks with Trick Trick, hit on Ne-Yo, and told Natasha Bedingfield that I had a girl-crush on her. We were waiting in line when I grinned, nudged Buzz, and said, "I spy a label person." I was referring to a small man clad in black at the counter. He was spouting off specific instructions for his nonfat, double-shot, triple-foam mocha something-or-other, and as he did so, he ran his hands through his platinum blonde hair. Repeatedly. He looked around, nodding and beaming at those in line behind him, shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, straightened his shirt, and played with his cell phone. The entire self-important performance smacked of a New York corner office at a major record label.

Buzz blinked at me and shook his head. "Please tell me you recognize him."

I studied the man again. "No. I do not."

"That's K.K."

(K.K. is the nickname I am assigning, simply to avoid being sued when the residual embarrassment from the forthcoming story sets in. I'll give you a clue, though. It starts with Kato, and ends with Kaelin.)

"Who?"

"K.K.!"

"Seriously?"

"YES!"

"Oh."

I found out mere hours later that K.K. was making the undignified RMA rounds to promote his upcoming last-shot reality show. After that, I didn't give him a second thought. It never occurred to me that I would be unfortunate enough to encounter him again.

Alas, I did at the Aladdin elevators, post-party the night of the ceremony. I hadn't actually attended the party, mind you. I'd skimmed the D-list celebrity selection, surveyed the appetizer spread, found them both to be unsatisfactory, and headed to New York, New York to lose the better portion of my savings account before returning to the hotel.

K.K., however, had attended the party. Lingered at the party, even. Hell, by all indication, he'd been perched on a bar stool for its entirety. He had the swagger of someone who'd been drinking excessively for several hours (or days) and the malicious personal odor to match.

"How do I know you?" he slurred in lieu of an actual greeting.

"You don't," I replied, punching the "up" button.

"But I do know you!" K.K. insisted.

"You don't."

"I do!"

"Oh, but you don't!"

I argued with him while the elevator crept downward, repeatedly assuring him that I'd never exchanged words with him before that very moment, only to be disputed every time. When the doors finally opened, I stepped on and pushed the button for my floor, hoping against hope that this unstable little man would take the next one. He didn't, so I scooted against the back wall in an attempt to put as much physical distance as possible between us and prayed that the elevator ascend more quickly than it had descended.

The doors closed, and K.K. fell forward, pressing his face against the crack between them until a bright, red line ran down his cheek. As we headed up, he resumed something that resembled human posture, turned around, and beamed at me as though he'd not spoken to me moments before. "Well, hey!" he exclaimed.

"Hi," I answered dully, wondering what on earth I'd done to deserve such an elevator ride.

"Whereareyougoing?"

"My floor," I snapped, pointing at the panel of buttons. "That's why that little number right there is all lit up."

He glanced at the panel, then whipped his head back around at me, throwing his inebriated body out of whack again. Once he'd succumbed to, and then recovered from the lack of equilibrium, he smiled at me.

"Well...whereamIgoing?"

"I have no idea. I'm pretty sure that you and I are not on the same floor."

K.K.'s face fell as the elevator stopped. "Oh."

I stepped around him and into the hallway, giving a backwards wave when I heard him say goodbye. To the best of my knowledge, he rode the elevator right back down since he never bothered to push a button. I briefly worried that he might not find his way, but then decided that the bellboys get paid the big bucks for a reason.

I also briefly worried that maybe that was part of his reality show. Perhaps his show is centered around his drunken elevator mishaps. Maybe there was a hidden camera that I was unaware of.

Or, maybe I'm such a big deal now that Ashton Kutcher was punking me! That must be it.

Haha! Good one, Ash! Call me! We'll do lunch!

I'm Here!

2005-12-11T23:16:00.000-08:00

Please don't abandon me. I have much to say. I really do! And I promise that I will get back to blogging as soon as the world stops spinning so fast. I'm having trouble keeping up at the moment.

But I love you.

Lots.

I wanna have, like, ten thousand of your babies.

Going Barefoot is Dangerous

2005-09-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about doing a show like the Pop Culture Countdown is getting to know bands and individual musicians while they're still on the up and up. In the beginning, their eyes are wide and bright, they're endlessly optimistic, and they are amazed by something new with every passing second.

They're like little rock star babies.

The transformation into the terrible twos seems to happen almost overnight, though. They suddenly realize that they have the power to compose multi-page concert riders, with absurd requests like "5 lbs. of green M&Ms," "a keg of Courvoisier," or "6 boxes of condoms." (Yes, those very things have been demanded by a wide variety of strange, far-removed little artists, and the requests are documented in black and white somewhere deep in my radio station's archive dungeon.) I like to catch 'em while they're fresh, friendly, and too naive to doubt me when I say, "I swear I'm not stalking you. Seriously, I was just in the area and thought I'd drop by to interview you."

I had the privilege of meeting Papa Joe Records' (that's Jessica and Ashlee's daddy's label, in case you're wondering) first signed band, Barefoot, recently. They are fellow Texans, which, hello! - deserves a mighty big yee-haw.

(Great. Now, I'm just perpetuating that Texas stereotype that I hate so much. NO, we do not all say "yee-haw" on a regular basis. "Fixin' to" and "y'all," yes, but never "yee-haw."

Okay, well, sometimes "yee-haw." But typically, rodeos are involved, and those only happen once a year.

There was a brief discussion of the Texas-isms that Barefoot and I share, which, coincidentally, you can download when you befriend the Pop Culture Countdown on MySpace.

Pluggity plug.

I know, I know, I'm shameless.)

Back to the Barefoot story, though. There are actually five guys in the band, and two of them are named Chris. I'm easily enough confused when everyone has different names. You can't expect me to keep things straight under same-name conditions. It just won't happen.

Barefoot must have been warned about me ahead of time. They left the lead singer, Chris P., behind when they came to the studio. I was told he was ill, but I think they were really just trying to help me out. I loved them for that immediately.

So, in waltzed Chris M., Clay, Jason and Matt. Greetings were exchanged, hands were shook, and then my stupidity set in.

See, anytime I have a full band sitting in front of me, I write down the individual members' names so that I won't address someone incorrectly. But despite the fact that I had been introduced to the boys mere seconds beforehand, and despite the fact that I had performed that little remembrance tip where you repeat the person's name back to them to help store the new data in your mind, I couldn't remember who was who.

I pointed to the first guy on the right. "Clay?"

"No. I'm Jason."

"Right, right, my bad." I smiled nervously and pointed to the guy next to him. "You're Clay," I proclaimed confidently.

"Chris Munselle."

"And I'm Matt, before you ask."

That left one lone, smiling boy on the far left. "You're Clay."

"I would have to be, wouldn't I?" he joked, tilting his chair back and propping his feet up on the console.

(Why anyone agrees to interview with me is beyond my comprehension. There are times that I think that the reps schedule these for their own amusement.)

I began the process of attempting to recover from my first faux pas, while simultaneously bracing myself for the others that I knew where just around the corner, when I heard a strange sound. I glanced up from my papers to find Clay beaming at me and shaking a small box of metallic pellets.

"Where is it?!" he asked.

"Where is what?"

"The gun!"

"Oh, no," Matt murmured.

Or maybe it was Jason. Or Chris. Pick a favorite and go with it.

One might find it odd that there would be metallic pellets just lying around the studio. You would have to see this room to fully understand it, though. By all indications, it's where movie props go to die. We have half of a mannequin in the window, a headless bobble-head of some sort on a file cabinet off to the side, the largest horse shoe I have ever in my life seen, and yes, a pellet gun (among other things). I don't know that anyone in the building even uses these bizarre things. But they're here, should we ever need them.

"It's over here," I answered absently, motioning behind me. I continued to set up the recording equipment and didn't notice that Clay had darted around to my side of the room until I heard someone say, "Clay, don't!" I turned around to find that he was standing there with an impish grin, methodically loading pellets into the gun.

"What are you doing?"

He ignored me and kept loading. "Is anyone down in that hallway?"

"What hallway? More importantly, why are you asking?"

Clay smiled at me and crept to the door. "Good, it's clear."

"Clay!" everyone yelled simultaneously, just as the gun fired. The loud pop echoed through the (fortunately) empty foyer. I watched, terrified, as he pumped and fired again. The other three boys exploded into laughter.

"What is he doing?! Someone stop him!"

"Hey," Chris said with a shrug, "you were the one who told him where the gun was."

Clay, who had wandered into the hallway to see what damage, if any, had been done, re-emerged. "It's no good. I need something to shoot at."

"No you don't!" I screeched. "Put the gun down!"

Unfortunately, nobody was paying attention to me at this point. To my horror, the others seemed to be just as enthralled with the gun as Clay was. They began scanning the room for potential targets, despite my protests.

"Pearson's not here. Shoot his guitar."

(Chris P., I swear, I tried to stop them.)

(And, just for your information, the mannequin, bobble-head and horseshoe didn't make it out alive, either. The file cabinet is in critical condition. I, somehow, escaped unscathed. Physically, anyway. Mentally and emotionally are other matters, entirely.)

I did finally meet the infamous and formerly absent Chris Pearson at the venue where Barefoot performed that night. He was quite soft-spoken, which surprised me. In fact, the group as a whole was strangely subdued by that point.

Of course, I don't suppose exhaustion is uncommon when you expend an outrageous amount of energy shooting radio studios up.

Still, as well as Barefoot wears mischief (they are, after all, blessed with the kind of great looks that give them license to get away with just about anything), pre-show serenity suits them well, too. Chris P. played Dave Barnes songs for me on the piano. Matt showed me his tattoos. (The tattoos on his arms. Get your mind out of the gutter!) Clay taught me all about the Cuban Revolution. And Jason and Chris M., gods among men, allowed a very thirsty me to snake all of the bottled water from their dressing room that I could hold.

Then, they went out, did the damn thing Barefoot-style, and blew everyone - me included - away.

I'll be "in their area" in a couple of days, and I fully plan on "dropping by to interview them." (If I'm lucky, it'll be a couple of months before they catch onto that one.)

I will also be "calling ahead" to make certain that there are no "guns" at the venue.

Stars (And Their Crappy "People")

2005-08-29T08:44:00.000-07:00

There is nothin' like State Fair season. It's the perfect opportunity to indulge in delicacies like cardiac-failure-on-a-stick (AKA giant corn dogs) and artery-hardening-goodness (AKA deep fried hostess treats), and to walk among the severely socially challenged, who are released from the trailer park once a year just for these particular festivities. It is certainly an experience to relish. I especially look forward to wandering around the poorly sectioned-off parking lot in hundred degree heat, unsuccessfully trying to ignore the parking attendants who either assume by my media pass that I am there for the sole purpose of hanging out with random famous people ("You's friends with that boy playin' tonight, ain'tcha?") or who are so hungry for fair food that they resort to begging passersby for scraps ("Baby, bring me back some of that deep fried chicken, wudja?").

You think I'm exaggerating, but both phrases were uttered to me during State Fair week (AKA the longest week of my life) - not just once, but multiple times - and since I don't "get" Fair mentality, I'm always taken aback by such long-voweled, barely-intelligible verbal detonation.

Predictably, I do a lot of smiling and nodding at the State Fair. It's the safest form of communication under such circumstances.

Switchfoot was one of the Fair acts this year. (I wonder if they mind that? I've always been curious if bands booked to play State Fairs hear the news and go, "Cool, that'll be fun." Or, if they hear the news and go, "It's been real. Later. I'm going to go kill myself now."

Switchfoot are very easy-going, laid back musicians, though. I imagine they could make themselves at home on just about any stage.)

The original plan for my PCC interview was for Tim Foreman to call me. Phone interviews are my faves. It eliminates the stress of speaking face-to-face with an unnaturally attractive person, and it takes away the added potential complications with the road personnel.

As in, oh...say...a jerk of a tour manager. I've never quite figured out what the deal is with some of these touring employees. And don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that they're all a-holes. The Click Five's guy, Steve, is wonderful and a credit to tour managers everywhere.

Unfortunately, he is the exception rather than the rule. Nine times out of ten, I wind up dealing with some power-hungry person anxious to exert their minimal authority at any given opportunity. And I'm still a bit of a child when it comes to dealing with authority. I'm sure there are issues there that could stand to be worked out in therapy, but as it stands, I simply do not like to be told what to do.

Ask my mommy. She will back me up on this.

The phone interview with Tim was set up, he called at the designated time, and we had a lovely, relaxed little chat. He is a very nice guy, and he didn't even seem to mind that I was more curious about whether or not he'd ever seen a shark while surfing than I was curious about his musical process.

"We recorded the album at various stops all over the world," Tim said enthusiastically. "So, when I listen to one song, I'm reminded of Africa and working with the children there."

"Uh-huh. Cool. Surfing, though. Dude, do you see sharks out there?"

(Silence.)

"Sure," Tim answered. "Sometimes."

"Oh, man. Doesn't that, like, totally freak you out."

"Well. Um, I don't know. No. I mean, if you surf, you see sharks. You know, actually, we did this cool surfing charity event for underprivileged kids out in Cali called the Bro Am - "

"You just accept that there are sharks there? You don't worry about losing a limb?!"

(More silence.)

"What? No...well, you know, there are sharks. And then there are sharks. You learn to tell the difference."

"You're crazy. Sharks are sharks! And they're mean! Oooh...have you ever been bitten?"

Eventually, people just learn to go with me on these things. One can hold out for a bit and hope that I'll shut up and get back to the point, but it almost never happens. Tim learned more quickly than most interviewees do, and that made things more pleasant for all parties involved. We talked about Switchfoot's new CD for one minute, and sharks for six. He thanked me, I thanked him, we hung up the phone, and that was that.

Until our promotions guy decided that we needed a guitar signed by the band, anyway. He called me into his office, pointed to the acoustic sitting in the corner, and suggested that I take it to the meet and greet at the Fair - something I hadn't planned on attending.

"Where's the guitar case?" I asked.

"Oh, there's not one."

"Just...the guitar."

"Yeah."

"You want me to lug a guitar out to the fairgrounds, sans a protective case?" I inquired, fearing the answer.

"I do, yes."

"It doesn't bother you that, not only will this new acoustic guitar be dragged through yards of dirt and manure and fried twinkie particles, but that I might look somewhat suspicious carrying an instrument through the FFH pavilion?"

"Nah. Tell them you're with the band," he casually suggested, returning to his oh-so-important task of looking exceptionally busy while doing absolutely nothing.

I glared at him, snatched the guitar up, and ran by my apartment to borrow a guitar case from myself for the task. As it turns out, though, a guitar with the case is just as suspicious as a guitar without the case when you're weaving in and out of cattle competitions and elephant ear stands. People flocked to me, convinced that I was, indeed, "with the band," and I couldn't convince them otherwise.

Because, hello! I have a guitar! People with guitars are with the band! Never mind that Switchfoot has never had a female member in the lineup, right?

By the time I made it to the meet and greet, my hand was cramping under the weight of the guitar and the hundreds of autographs I'd signed.

(Start watching for Switchfoot merchandise signed by "Pom Pom Hollybrook" - my first pet/street-I-grew-up-on porn name - to show up on eBay.)

A little insight on band meet and greets: these, no matter how highly disorganized and spur-of-the-moment they look, are planned to frighteningly coordinated and specific agendas. What tends to happen, though, is that the most carefully laid plans fall through because someone somewhere couldn't get their shizznit together, which then throws the touring staff into a complete tither. They'll freak out because ohmygoodness, we are 30 minutes off schedule, people! and start moving fans through the area like brain-dead herds of cattle headed to the promise of a salt lick. Hence, the disorganized, spur-of-the-moment vibe. It's really just thinly disguised panic.

And once the panic sets in, they never take kindly to some radio station jumping into the meet and greet at the last second under the official "okay" of some record rep who's states away and not dealing with the actual process. Because of the whole autographed guitar mission, we were that station.

More specifically, I was that station, because I was all by my lonesome. Promotions Man might as well have sent me into a den of wolves with a T-bone necklace on.

I didn't expect much more than the harsh reception I got from the tour manager. Still, while I realized that the situation was inconvenient for him, it was just as inconvenient for me. He had to work someone else into the event, I had to carry the guitar of shame around for the duration of the evening. This mutual inconvenience could have served to bring us together.

He decided to be a dick to me instead, though. Still driven by the strands of professionalism that had not yet broken under the strain of the situation, I managed to uncharacteristically grin and bear it the first few times a sharp word was hurled in my direction. I just beamed at him through clenched teeth, got in the back of the line, and followed everyone to the holding area.

Where we held.

And held.

And held some more.

A solid hour, we held. By the time His Tour Highness came to retrieve us, I was soaked in sweat (attractive, huh?), quite dehydrated, suffering through a loss of circulation in the guitar-toting arm, and essentially, fit to be tied. So, when he began barking orders, he inadvertently flipped my inner bitch switch.

"A single file line!" he yelled. "One item per person! Do not - I repeat, DO NOT ask for pictures! We don't have time for that! No individual conversations! I want you in and out, people! In and out!"

I glowered from my spot in line, stepped out, and marched up to him. "Look, I know pictures aren't allowed, here. But I did an interview with Tim, and we generally use a picture with the interview downloads online. Can I please take one? I'll keep it brief."

"No. They have to be onstage in half an hour."

"Yes, I get that. I'm not asking you to round the whole band up. I could take one with just Tim real quick while the others are signing the guitar."

"No! We are pressed for time!"

What made me even angrier than his lacking disposition was his instant dismissal of me. The man actually turned his back to me and folded his arms across his chest! He reacted much like a toddler who's been asked to share a toy would.

I, in turn, reacted much like the toddler who did not get equal time with the toy because of the first really bratty, unreasonable toddler.

I returned to the line, and when my turn to meet and greet came, I marched up to the table with my guitar, smiled sweetly, and asked the boys to pass it down. They, being the good-natured, obliging individuals that they are, happily did so. While they were occupied, I approached Tim under the fiery gaze of Mr. Congeniality, removed my camera from my bag, and held it up.

"Hey, Tim. I'm Mysti. I spoke to you earlier today."

"Oh, hey!" he said, extending his hand. "Nice to put a face to the name!"

"Ditto. Look, I know we're not supposed to get pictures, but if I could get a quick one with just you to post online alongside the interview, I would be ever so grateful."

"Oh, sure. That's not a problem. Come here."

I turned around, grinned widely and victoriously at the tour manager, and handed the camera to a security guard. I fought the urge to yell, "Whatcha gonna do now, tough guy?! Tim said yes! Try to override him!" I didn't, though. I held my tongue, Tim and I said cheese, and while one would think that was triumph enough, I wasn't satisfied. I wanted to suck up even more of his precious seconds, just for spite.

"I know this is a little weird, but I have this Hat(TM), and it's sort of a joke, and...well, could we take a picture with it, too?"

Tim glanced at Hat(TM) and laughed. "This is great. Yeah. Let's do it!"

Oh, snap.

I thanked him, shook his hand, and moved on to Jon. Obviously, I was being watched like a hawk by now. The rays of hate were burning into my back, but I just winced against them and struck up a mini conversation with the lead singer. Just for the meanness of it.

Jon and I conversed pleasantly for a minute while I got the Switchfoot-adorned guitar back into the case. When the last clasp was firmly in place, I gathered my things, thanked the band for their time, and then I did what any smart-ass with such a gorgeous (if immature) conquest would have done.

I ran.

God, Give Me Style and Give Me Grace. (Or...Don't.)

2005-08-15T10:35:00.000-07:00

"Your Pop Culture Countdown interview with Coldplay is confirmed, Mysti. You'll do it at 6:30 on Friday night."

Ohmygoodness! I thought to myself, outwardly composed, but inwardly, an ecstatic, babbling mess. I get to interview Coldplay! COLDPLAY. One of the biggest rock acts in the entire friggin' world!

Pause.

Ohmygoodness! I thought to myself, outwardly composed, but inwardly, a terrified, babbling mess in the process of an anxiety meltdown. I have to interview Coldplay. COLDPLAY. One of the biggest rock acts in the entire friggin' world.

See, this was Coldplay we were talking about. There would be no room for error. The problem lies in the fact that error is, in fact, my forte. I am very, very good at error. I thrive on error. Without lots and lots of error, I would not be where I am right now.

(That being a Panera Bread restaurant, in case you were wondering. I had actually intended on going to Starbucks, but I turned into the wrong strip center.

See? Error.)

Suffice it to say that once the impact of the news hit me, I shook uncontrollably for the better part of the day. Sure, that could have been the two energy pills I choked down upon awakening that morning, or the countless cups of office coffee sludge I'd had since arriving at work, or a combination of the two, but pointing that out would only take away from the overly dramatic angle that I'm approaching this story from. So, for the sake of the entry, we'll just say that my nerves had run amuck.

Once I got home, I did what any DJ with no confidence in her ability to make pleasant, interesting small-talk with Coldplay would do. I pulled out my trusty iBook, connected to my stolen internet (I'm not intentionally stealing it, of course. If I knew where it was coming from, I would absolutely go knock on that person's door and ask them if they minded my free-loading. As it stands now, it's just there - internet from the gods, I call it.), and I over-prepared. I feverishly searched prep-service archives, printing out page upon page of plans for the band that Chris Martin has divulged in recent months.

...that Chris Martin has divulged in recent months. Just so you know, those very words will be key to the rest of this story.

There was another small matter causing me a teensy bit of stress. I am currently donning a Click Five bracelet. As you can see, the bracelet is bright blue. A friend of mine noticed my band the day before the interview.

"You know that Coldplay's bracelets are blue, too, right?" she asked.

As a matter of fact, I did not know this. Thinking forward to the interview, I realized that it could be a very awkward situation if the guys saw the bracelet, got all goofy with gratitude at my unabashed support, and then, upon closer inspection, learned that it wasn't unabashed support of them.

So, I searched the net just before I headed to the show to see if the bracelets were so similar that I might need to remove the one I was wearing. All of the returns showed pictures of a distinctly navy-colored wrist band. Clearly, not at all similar. One of them goes with black. One of them does not. I was safe.

At promptly 6:30 on Friday evening, I was escorted to the backstage area of the venue where the band was performing. The rep led me through the patio area, where I'm nearly certain that I spied Gwyneth Paltrow. I can't be 100% sure, simply because I didn't get a good look at her face-on. The profile was quite Gwyneth-like, though, and she was slumped in her chair over a plateful of macrobiotic-friendly lettuce leaves and dirt. Her arm hung limply by her side, blatantly weighted down by the HUGE-ASS ROCK on her ring finger.

I was tempted to approach her and say, "I have a child named Banana. Let's make a play date."

I showed great restraint, though, and kept my mouth shut. Gold star for me.

"You'll be speaking to Guy Berryman," the rep told me, as we swept past pleasant-looking Britain natives. Coldplay's entourage are a quiet, subdued people. "I'll go get him."

"Okay," I replied, settling into the oversized couch with no small amount of alarm seeping through my veins. Guy Berryman. As in, not Chris Martin. Problematic? Yeah, a little, since all of the information available on the band comes straight from Chris Martin's mouth.

Oh, you'll be fine, I told myself, fiddling nervously with my bracelet. Chris Martin is probably just the spokesman for the group. They're all in the loop.

Guy, a fragile-looking little Brit, entered the room and smiled at me. "Hello," he said warmly. I stood, greeted him back and shook his extended hand. A single downward glance was all that it took for him to notice the blue bracelet. "Oh!" he exclaimed delightedly, twisting my wrist (rather abruptly and painfully) around to read the inscription. The words WWW.THECLICKFIVE.COM glared back up at him, and his face fell. "Oh..."

What the...? I thought to myself. My eyes scanned the wrists of the others in the room, and I noticed they were all wearing bracelets exactly like mine. These were not the navy wrist bands I'd seen online. These were large, brightly colored baubles that were seemingly kin to the very one sliding halfway down my hand.

I bit back a stream of obscenities when I inspected the writing on the armlet nearest to me: X&Y. That was something I certainly hadn't counted on. It never dawned on me that the promotional bracelet for the current album might be a different shade of blue than the generic Coldplay one.

(When I emailed Joey to tell him of my Click Five bracelet mishap, he seemed to find it amusing and didn't appear to be at all concerned with the fact that I offended Guy. "Haha!" Joey replied.

Haha, Joey? This is FUNNY? You mock my embarrassment with a Haha? Your bracelet causes me anguish, and all I get is a Haha?

You're getting a beatdown the next time I see you, boy.)

I took the uncomfortable silence that befell us to be an omen, and the shakes slowly crept back in. He cleared his throat, I rolled my eyes skyward and pleaded with every available deity, and we both took our seats.

The interview began, and Guy, resolving to move forward, indulged me in some small talk about the heat. "I wanted to go for a run, but it's too hot," he said, dramatically wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Yes, stay inside, because we don't want you passing out before the show!" I shot back.

"Haha," we both laughed. (See, Joey? This was an appropriate time for Haha. Take note.)

Discussions of fabulous chart reigns ensued, which is when I brought up the behind-the-scenes taping they'd done for X&Y. I've read several times that Chris Martin hopes to put together a Beatles-esque documentary with the footage at some point. When I broached this subject, though, Guy squinted at me.

"What? Beatles documentary? This is the first that I'm hearing of this."

I looked at the rep, who simply shrugged and cast his gaze elsewhere, then back at Guy, who had fixed his own perplexed gaze downward. Either he was looking at the floor, or at the bracelet again. The moment was already afflictive enough, though, without me adding my speculation to it. I decided that he was looking at the floor, and pushed forward. "Well, it's something that I'd heard Chris was wanting to do..." He nodded agreeably, which I took to be a good sign. "...um...so, the Twisted Logic tour is huge! A lot of bands never make it to the sold-out arena show phase, and oddly enough, I heard that you guys were looking to scale back and play some smaller venues next time around. Why is that?"

Guy's smile faded away once again, and he cocked his head at me. "Again, this is news to me. Where are you getting your information?"

Does Chris Martin tell his bandmates nothing? Are they just flying ignoramuses on this rock show ride?

I glanced down at my interview cheat sheet, and realized that all of the information I had was probably useless. The odds of this dude knowing about anything that I had planned on bringing up were not in my favor.

Rock.

Hard place.

Me.

I sighed, defeated, and tried to distract him with my funky green Hat(TM), just as one might try to distract a distraught infant with shiny keys. The ploy worked. There was enough confusion brought about by Hat(TM)'s appearance that I was able to slip out of the room, undetected for the chaos.

When I re-joined the station staff, I lamented about yet another interview casualty. Our assistant promotions director threw his hands up in the air.

"Way to go, Mysti!" he shouted angrily. "Now, Guy is going to march back to their dressing room and confront Chris about it. He'll be all, 'What, we aren't part of this band now?' And then Chris will say, 'Shut up! Apple is sleeping!' And then Guy will say, 'We're people, too, you know! Coldplay is not just Chris Martin!' Then Gwyneth will come in and go, 'You guys, keep it down. Apple is sleeping.' And Chris will be all, 'Told you,' to Guy, and Guy will get in his face and say, 'I don't care! We're overthrowing you!' And the rest of the band will be, like, 'Yeah! You tell him!' Then, Apple will wake up and the next thing you know, Coldplay is on hiatus!"

He paused to glare at me, then added, "All because of you."

I nodded sadly and turned my back to him, feigning the restraint of an emotional outburst. The entire time, though, I was thinking, Man, how cool would it be if I broke Coldplay up?

Call me, MTV. I was there! And for a small price, you could hear about the breakup first.

Let Me Go Back To My Carrot Sticks And Ranch Dip

2005-08-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

I think it's become blatantly apparent at this juncture that if there is a way to mess up an interview, I will find it, and with surprising ease and grace. I prefer not to think of this as a lack of skills, but a particular talent for making things a little more interesting than they actually need to be.

In other words, I shamelessly lie to myself.

What must be kept in mind, though, is that I struggle through interviews with my foot in my mouth even when the interviewee is giving me every opportunity to succeed with pre-printed information about themselves and amusing anecdotes to cover my awkward pauses, and by politely overlooking it when I butcher their names, confuse their songs, or, my most often faux pas, shorten the titles of their albums. I have no idea why I commit this last sin, but it comes as naturally to me as breathing - perhaps moreso, as I just noticed that I've been needlessly holding my breath as I write this.

(That certainly explains the dizzy spell.

Inhale. Exhale.

Okay. Much better. My word, I was turning blue!)

Anyway, where was I? No skills...botched interviews...album titles...ah, yes. Album titles. Well, for the longest time, I called The Click Five's forthcoming CD Imrie House. I knew full well that it was Greetings From Imrie House, but I could never be bothered to get those first two words out of my mouth. It's as though my brain was trying to eliminate any excess information that might trip me up, and encouraging me to stick solely to the main idea. Last weekend on the PCC, I made a conscious effort to include the entire name of the disc, and it came out as Greetings To Imrie House.

Beautiful.

The Click Five aren't my only victims, mind you. Howie Day's Stop All The World Now was shortened to simply Stop, World. Mariah Carey's The Emancipation of MiMi became MiMi's Emancipation. (There are traces of my word dyslexia in that one, also evident in the title of Jack Johnson's song that, when said by me, comes out, "Sitting, Wishing, Waiting." This particular switch was brought about when I noticed that the intended title, "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing," induced thoughts of Young M.C.'s "Bust A Move." Every time Jack would sing, Young M.C. would interrupt.

Well, I was sittin', waitin', wishin'...

...someone could cure your lonely condition!

I can't always be waiting, waiting on you...

You want it? You got it!

I was all, "Shut up, dude! Get back into the 80s where you belong!"

He was all, "No way, bitch, bust a move!"

Words were exchanged, punches were thrown, my love of retro rap, consequently, suffered. It sucked. Trust me.)

Probably the least flattering of all of my album-name edits: Green Day's American Idiot. Yep, you guessed it. Just Idiot. I should probably work on memorizing the entire name of that CD if I want to talk to them next month.

I was headed somewhere specific with the album tangent, but that specific point has long since vanished, so we'll just go with the general idea, which is that I don't need help screwing up my interviews. It's best if I work with artists who are well-spoken, intelligent, and enough on their game for the both of us. If I get thrown a curve ball, striking out shortly thereafter is a certainty.

Last weekend, I drove 3 1/2 hours to get to an interview that was taking place in a nothing little Midwestern town. That was the first problem. They have apparently not informed either Mapquest or Google Maps that the highway leading into their quaint community is currently CLOSED. This, predictably, makes finding (let alone entering) the city limits quite the task. Add to that the fact that none of the locals appear to know that there is a Civic Center, which means they certainly can't tell me where to find it, and violent exasperation sets in. There's no relying on printed maps, either, since all of the ones currently in existence place the venue a good 5 blocks north of where it actually is.

The second problem was the band itself. I have no intention of revealing who these guys are, lest somebody take my words the wrong way. (The record rep giveth the hook-up. And just as easily, the record rep taketh that hook-up away.) I do sincerely love them, so don't think otherwise. My affections have never been swayed by the fact that they're good ol' southern boys who find it challenging to string a sentence together, and once they do, the final product is loosely held together by a strand of uhhs, umms and errs. I've also never been put off by my strong presumption that if they weren't doing what they're doing (that being selling millions of CDs - the titles of which, I'm happy to say, I have never shortened! - and touring the country), they would spend obscene amounts of time huntin' and Walmartin'. I accept them as they are, and when they're kind enough to grant me an interview, I do the work for both of us. I gather the questions and the answers, so that hopefully, neither of us will run into any unanticipated obstacles.

Like them not knowing what the name of their group is.

Often time, with bands, I will be assigned one specific member to talk to. In this case, it was the bassist. Sigh of relief, for I have spoken with him before and find him to be delightful and pleasant. Sigh of despair, for I have spoken with him before and know full well that he's oblivious to anything happening outside of his immediate personal space. I'm certainly not suggesting that he's a Loser, because - no, no! - I would never insinuate that he could Be Like That. It's more me letting you know that this dude is a little...non-communicative. Conversationally inept. Certifiably inelaborate. Just pick a favorite and run with it, here.

I showed him my interview cheat sheet, because I had a feeling he would need it more than I would. "Here," I said, sliding it to him as we sat side by side on an oversized couch. Yes, I was close enough to fondle the back of his neck or run my hand up his leg. But never you mind about that. "Check out this thing that your website is doing right now, and has been doing for the tour thus far. Fans can subscribe to this service, and as they leave your concerts, Verizon will stream concert footage to their phones. Cool, huh?"

"Aaaaaawesome!"

"I'm going to bring this up, okay?"

"Gotcha."

"Good. Because it will be mentioned roughly thirty seconds after I press record. I just wanted you to be prepared for that."

"Cool, cool," he replied appreciatively. "Let's knock it out."

Perhaps it was the fact that we reached that question approximately twenty-five seconds sooner than I initially indicated we would be reaching it that threw him off. And that was only due his impaired answers to the first few questions:

"How's the tour going?"

"Good."

"How was it playing with the surprise guest you had onstage a couple of nights ago?"

"It was cool."

"What on earth are you looking at?! The microphone and cheat sheet are right here!"

(The answer to that last one, by the way, was carrot sticks and ranch dip. He was absolutely enamored of the spread in his dressing room.)

For whatever reason, though, when the Verizon video streaming came up, I was met with the blankest gaze I have ever in my life seen. His eyes were emptier than my savings account currently is.

I know you can't fully grasp that comparison because you haven't seen my bank statement, but trust me, that's empty.

"Umm...uhh...ohhh..." he stammered into the microphone. "Yeeeaaaahhhhh, ummm...I don't really know when we're gonna start that...but...uhh...ohhh...yeah, um, that's something we're going to be, uhhh, ahhh, errr, ohhh...doing."

I gaped at him incredulously, simultaneously gripping my recording equipment until my knuckles turned white. (Then purple. Then a teensy bit blue with a blackish tinge. But I suppose that's really neither here nor there.) How is this happening? I asked myself. How is it that I spelled the correct answer to this out for him, yet he still fails to provide that correct answer at an appropriate time?!

As I inquired about this inwardly, I noticed him sitting there, grinning at me as though he didn't have a care in the world - head tilted, eyes agleam. Just like a little puppy dog. That sort of made me want to kick him in the crotch.

Okay, Mysti, what's done is done. Just keep going.

So, I did. "As soon as this tour wraps up, you're set to hit the road again immediately. Exciting or tiring?"

"Ummmmmmm..."

Moving right along. "You just released an E-P exclusively through iTunes?"

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

Alritey. Skipping that. "Can you tell me what's in your iPod? Do you know what you, yourself, are listening to on your own time?"

"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."

"Right. Hey, thanks for taking the time to stammer at me."

"Sure!" he said brightly. "Thanks for having me!" And, back to the carrot sticks and ranch dip he went.

Man, it's a good thing he's pretty.

Fly Clean And Wake Up Yesterday

2005-08-05T11:28:00.000-07:00

For someone who continually finds herself in the coolest of situations, I certainly am the most uncool person you could ever hope to come across. In fact, by all appearances, I really work at finding new and inventive ways to showcase just how not suave and how not on my game I can be.

Take, for example, the time that Jason Mraz performed an acoustic set in the lobby of my radio station. A set that, in my defense, I was NOT present for. As I, in one of my many failed attempts to be on-time for my air shift, was rushing across the area toward the studio, I was stopped by a waifish, pleasant young man. "Thank you so much for having me!" he gushed, pumping my hand with a tad too much gusto. "I had such a great time!"

"Oh, good!" I replied absently. "Congratulations on winning tickets to the show! I'm glad you enjoyed it."

I didn't understand the baffled gaze that I was met with until said young man was accosted by two rabid fans. Collecting the tattered remnants of my dignity, I smiled. "Alritey, then, Jason. I hope to bump into you again when I'm not retarded."

There's also the Ashlee Simpson show I attended several months ago where I had the privilege of being introduced to a sickeningly attractive group of young men that we all now know as The Click Five. It was a bit of an impromptu meet and greet happening in the upstairs foyer at the venue, and I watched, amused, as droves of young women lined up to get various limbs signed by the five guys. When there was a small opening to jump in and say hello, I was introduced to Eric Dill - or Captain Adorable, as I'm going to refer to him from now on. After having signed goodness knows how many arms, he was clearly in auto fan-obliging mode, and when I extended my hand to shake his, he grabbed his Sharpie and went to work. Before I could properly react, I had scribbles from my elbow to my wrist.

This would have been the opportune time to become obnoxious with glee, because, really, how often does a hot boy sign your arm?

I, for some reason, couldn't see past the permanent marker that was marring my formerly scribble-free arm. "Will this come off?" I asked Eric curtly, cutting my eyes up at him questioningly.

Hardly flattering, I'm sure.

And, of course, that was before I became acquainted with and developed a loyal (not to mention frightening) affection for the boys. Now, they could sign anything and I wouldn't complain.

Well, okay, maybe not anything. I wouldn't let them sign my kitchen countertops. I want my deposit back.

(Talked to Eric last week, incidentally. The tour with BSB is going swimmingly. The Click Five now has a phat bus that sounds amazing, but E declined to let me check it out for myself. I think he's onto me.)

((When did I start referring to people as the first letter of their name? How disgustingly Beverly Hills 90210 is that? My apologies, Dill.))

(((Ugh, last name only is even worse. Captain Adorable. Let's leave it at that.)))

Hilary Duff is the latest unsuspecting target of my fatal idiocy. She's currently on her Most Wanted tour, and somebody somewhere managed to convince her that calling me to do an interview for the PCC would be a good idea. For some reason, my reputation still fails to precede me. But that's a good thing. I'd like to cling to that phenomenon for as long as I'm able.

I drug my butt out of bed on my "day off" to be at the station at the ungodly hour of 3:25 in the afternoon so that I would be present to accept Miss Duff's call. And let me tell you that she is a prompt little thing! There was none of that waiting-around business that came with Ronnie Vannucci's call a couple of weeks back. At precisely 3:25 p.m., the hot line flashed like a dance floor at midnight.

We chatted back and forth for a bit. She was lovely. I was prepared. Things were going well. But then, I made the terrible mistake of glancing at her discography. I have no idea why I even printed this out. It had very little to do with anything that we were discussing, and really, could have only served to complicate what should have been a very simple interview to conduct.

Still, I glanced, and that list became my DJ kryptonite. Having glimpsed too much compact information at once, my brain instantly turned to oatmeal and oozed out through my ear. I caught what I could with my hands and tried to smoosh it back in, but the damage had already been done.

"Love the new song, Hilary!" I complimented her.

"Thank you!" she answered excitedly. (I imagine hearing that you're fabulous never gets old.)

"Yes," I continued, shovel in hand. "Fly is a great one!"

Silence.

Dig, dig.

Oh, gosh, I thought manically. What is the name of that song? I know this song! What's wrong with me?!

I began singing it in my head. Come clean, come clean on a Saturday night...

"I mean, Come Clean."

More silence.

Dig, dig, dig.

No, no, that's not right! I chastised myself silently. Let's see...the girl can rock on a Saturday night? No. Definitely no. Metamorphosis on a Saturday night? My lips are sealed on a Saturday night?

Oh, man. Wake up, Mysti, wake up.

Wait.

That's it!

"Wake Up," I said quickly.

"Thanks," she repeated flatly.

I shook my head sadly, and scratched the one Joel Madden question that I had off of my list. No way was I going to go there after that slip-up.

I feel certain that this is somehow the fault of The Killers' tour manager. I don't know how. I only know that it is. So, bite me, Jeremy.

Somebody Told Me That Your Tour Manager Sucked

2005-08-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

We have national web exposure, people! Hurry! Flock one, flock all to The Click Five website, click (ha! Click!) on "news," and see the Pop Culture Countdown there in all of its linked-up splendor on the July 22nd entry!

(Or, uh, I could just make it super easy on you and say click here.)

Sure, it may look like a small and insignificant thing to you, but that's because you have no idea what it took to get it! Given the month-and-a-half-long struggles with their web people, you'd have thought I was asking them to organize the second coming of Christ! I never could make anyone understand the page we were trying to put together for them, and each time I would attempt to clarify, I was met with the email equivalent of a blank gaze and soundless mouth, slightly agape. When all was said and done, Eric's father was the one who accomplished my mission. I guess he broke it down in a way that I couldn't. He called Eric, Eric told Joey, Joey emailed me, I emailed back, and - voila! Link! It's available for a limited time only (through the month of August), and I hate to sound bossy and everything, but after all of the blood, sweat and tears expended for this, you'd sure as hell better go look at it.

It would also be the opportune time to track down some tour dates for the boys. They're fabulous live, and everyone should see the show a minimum of once.

I'm currently beginning the process all over again with Josh Kelley's people. Wish me luck, for I know no parental units here that could be of assistance to me, and I'm not professionally close enough to Josh to email him directly.

And even if I were, the restraining order specifically prohibits that.

In the midst of all of the internet madness, I managed to get a phone interview set up with Ronnie Vannucci of The Killers, which was a daunting task, to say the least. I've seen a few television interviews with those guys, and in none of them did they strike me as terribly...talkative?...individuals. They struck me as more of a...grunt unintelligibly?...bunch. Obviously, this could be a problem, because you can't really count on aesthetic charm to get you by in a phoner. (Do you like that industry word? "Phoner?" Does it impress you?

No.

Didn't think so. But I thought I'd try. Anyway, moving on.)

Fortunately, the interviews I've seen with them are terribly misrepresentative (I just invented that word, by the way; Webster's, call me! We'll talk!) of Ronnie's conversational skills. He's a charming lad, to say the least! We chatted and joked and I fell a little bit in love with him in the span of 8 minutes. I was also, predictably, psyched when he suggested that I dart backstage at the Indy show to say hello.

Yes, cutie pie, no need to ask me twice!

So, I called the tour manager to set up a time to see the guys. That was apparently the worst move ever on my part, because I, through no fault of my own, had already had to make half a dozen calls to him. In short, the interview was supposed to happen at 2:00 p.m. Central. I didn't end up speaking to Ronnie until 3:50 p.m. Central. Are there going to be calls made to find out what the hell is going on? Absolutely. I don't think I'm any different than anyone else when I say that I don't really have an hour and fifty minutes to waste sitting in front of a phone. But, unfortunately, that's what has to be done in a situation like this because as certain as you step away from that hateful and silent little receiver for a minute, that's when it will begin furiously ringing. I also had permission from the band's rep to stay on this Jeremy guy's ass about it. That gives me right to call as many times as need be to ensure that the interview will, as promised, happen.

Once the interview is over, though, my license to annoy is spent, and the dude was noticeably frustrated when I called back to schedule a private meet-and-greet. Surprisingly, though, he agreed, gave me a time to be at the venue, double checked my number, and said he'd work it out.

I was at the venue at the scheduled time. No call.

Twenty minutes to showtime. No call.

At the risk of royally pissing him off, but figuring my license had been reinstated, I call. Voicemail.

A polite message is left, informing Jeremy that I am at the venue and looking forward to meeting up with him after the show.

Insert fabulously entertaining, visually stimulating Killers concert here and a prolonged stint in the foyer afterward. No call.

Another message (less polite) is left, reminding Jeremy that I am there, I do hate him for the diss, and that I will only relinquish my dignity for another ten minutes or so before I leave. For I am a very busy woman and do not have all evening to stand around waiting for a photo op with some silly little nationally-known, critically-acclaimed band!

(Of course, the truth was that I just wanted to get home and play Halo 2 with my neighbors.)

Would you believe that more than two weeks later, I am still waiting for the call? I'm updating from the parking lot of the venue right now. Seriously! Now, sure, I saw the tour bus leave and noticed what I assumed to be Jeremy's extended middle finger wagging at me from one of the windows as I was left in a cloud of exhaust fumes, but I harbor hope that it was all just a silly joke. Any minute now, they'll pull in, the guys will step off the bus and hug me, and we'll all have a good laugh.

Any minute now...

I'm Guest of Band, Mofo!

2005-07-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

Allow me to say that this "allowable stalking" part of my syndication efforts are quite rad. Nobody even blinks when you turn up 10 hours from home (this time, in Kansas City), microphone in hand, wild-eyed with anticipation and made stupid by the sheer power of a GUEST OF BAND backstage pass.

My friend and I stood just outside of the lawn stage barrier at around 3:30 in the afternoon. (Do you have any idea what 3:30 in the afternoon is like in KC? I wondered while I was there if the ozone layer might have worn away over this particular city. The heat was brutal!) I had sweat trickling in rivers down my face, and I was craning my neck to try to get the attention of someone in The Click Five's entourage. The woman at the gate gazed hatefully at me, then softened her expression when she saw my laminate.

I'm telling you, people, these things are like golden bricks.

But if you ever get your hands on one, just trust the words "all access." After all of these years, I feel as though I don't belong, and therefore assume that I look as though I don't belong, too. Thus begins the awful, incriminating cycle of justifying my presence, despite the fact that I was never asked to.

"Friends of Lifehouse?" she asked casually, noting the scrawl on our passes and moving the barrier aside.

"Um...well, yes," I stammered. "But, I mean, I'm friends with them, too," I hurriedly assured her, pointing at the five suits hovering distractedly beneath a tent just behind a stage. She nodded, and I somehow interpreted that as an invitation to explain myself. "Well, not friends, per se. I mean, I know them. Sort of. I don't know if they'll remember me or not. I mean, I know their rep, though. That's actually how I got these passes. And, um...I have The Click Five's tour manager's name in my phone, here. And, you know, as for Lifehouse, I don't know Lifehouse. I'm not buddies with them. I just work for a radio station in Indianapolis and I, um...you know, scheduled some stuff. I'm actually here for The Click Five, but for some reason, they put Lifehouse on my passes. You know?" The profuse sweating at this point had absolutely nothing to do with the near 100-degree heat. I was a victim of my own stupidity.

"Look, it's fine. Go back."

"Okay. I will." I edged past her hesitantly. "Thanks." I took a few more steps and paused to watch her replace the barrier, which signified my undisputed "belonging."

Then, after all of that, the sound guy kicked us out.

Overall, though, the day went (mostly) smoothly. The Pussycat Dolls were delightful little pixies (even if their very existence did make me feel exceptionally imperfect); Howie Day didn't lock me in his tour bus bathroom, nor did he break my phone; Jesse McCartney touched me (not at all inappropriately, mind you, but still - yowza); Gavin DeGraw couldn't remember my name, and took to calling me "honey" (which is just fine with me, thankyouverymuch); Bryce was kind enough not to point out how I unintentionally alienated him with the microphone during my time with Lifehouse; and The Click Five, amazingly enough, didn't file a restraining order.

Yet, anyway.

The six oh-so-kickass interviews that I got will be made available for download at the PCC iPod page as the summer wears on. The Click Five's is already up, and I love those guys like woah, so you should go download it.

Like, now.

No, seriously. Now.

Am I smothering you? I'm so sorry. Let's talk about it and clear things up.

After you download the interview.