Movielife, Brand New, Orange Island tour: November, 2002.
I fell in love with a girl this night (or the night after, this flyer is the coolest though, so we’ll say it was this night). I threw her glances all night and then somehow we ended up all talking to her and her friends outside after the show. I say “somehow” eventhough I realize we were the bands of the night so it shouldn’t have been too hard but we didn’t think that way back then: not us, not the dudes in the Movielife or the dudes in Brand New. We were just friends hanging out, getting to play music, we didn’t really realize the perks eventhough we were playing to a shitload of kids every night.
Anyway, I asked her to marry me. She told me that she had a boyfriend. I asked what his name was and she said, Carlos. I said, well my name is Charles, Carlos is Spanish for Charles, so why not be with the real thing? She laughed and we left her like we’d leave every crew of one-night-stand friends.
A couple of weeks later, a bunch of us were out at a hipster dance night in Boston. We used to go from practice out to the city to continue the party. We’d meet up with a bunch of friends and hit up these dance nights. This was START that used to be at a club on Landsdowne street. It was probably the most ironic of these type of nights: playing hip-hop and techno and shit as opposed to 80s tunes or whatever.
Anyway, I’m pretty drunk and I see this girl on stage shaking her shit like it’s the last night on Earth. I think my friends would get a kick out of it if I went up and danced with her. So, that’s what I do. I start grinding with her and what-nots, all the while trying to look past the spotlights and find my crew. To my surprise, she’s into it! Whhhhaaaat!? So, we go at it or whatever. And it’s all the whim and capriciousness of my life back then.
She ends up only speaking Spanish to me. So after, “Como se llamo?” I reply, “Carlos.”
The night goes on; she takes me back to her apartment in Jamaica Plain. We take a bath; she starts talking English. She shows me pictures of her childhood; we wear silk kimonos and dance. When we get down to business she warns me that she’s going to be loud.
“Oh. Carlos.” She later yells, making good on her promise. “Who the fuck is Carlos?” I think to myself with a shrug (now sobered up a little bit in the early morning hours, the day/night seemingly neverending, where hours ago seemed like a lifetime ago). Not that I gave a shit.
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