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aruanTo think I idly considered not going to this. *scoffs*
In short, and so you're duly forewarned because this is the only time in this entry that you'll get that small favor, I met JC Chasez, and it was good.
This ended up being too long. Even I acknowledge this. But the experience was what it was, and this is it, unabridged.
Having finally burned the definitive Ephemeral mix,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
walkingshadow and I set out of Gainesville around two o'clock. We haven't spent real quality time together in at least a week so between dueting we got in a good bit of conversation. Also, the road to Tampa is much better, not to mention prettier, than the one to Orlando, which made the drive that much more pleasant.
Forsaking practicality for an assumably packed, walking-requiring outdoor activity, I wore my new, knee-length, grey Gap skirt with a sleeveless, artistically-ripped-cotton-with-mesh-underneath white top (I've otherwise completely missed the British rocker look coming back in style), orange bandana with my watch around my left wrist and a black mesh "armwarmer" on my right, and my beloved sparkly black flip-flops.
Okay, now, you can't see me and not that I wield any such power anyway, but trust when I say that if I did, I would be surreptitiously and without any mercy firing every last person in charge of JC's promotion. Right after this event of course, but seriously yo, these boys have paid their Tampa Bay Guavaween dues. I don't know whose brainchild the Teen Nick thing was, but as everyone has mentioned it was totally out of his target demographic for this album. And just because they decide to go it solo, doesn't mean they have to start back on the bottom, at small local radio station variety shows. *shakes head*
Anyhow.
First of all, Guavaween sounded like a grand family Halloween affair in the quaint historic Ybor district of downtown Tampa, by the official web site's description. In actuality, family-themed turned out to be a mixture of high schoolers and the headbanging thirtysomething crowd that just never learned to let go of heavy metal. Halloween turned out to be represented only insofar as some people were wearing costumes, but the rest was all some mid-year anniversary celebration of Mardi Gras. And by quaintly historic was more like the kind of dust storm-worn, rundown town of about three streets in each direction you see in old Hollywood Westerns.
There were several radio stations with stages set up at different locations, but it wasn't hard to find the 93.3 stage - Blaque was doing soundcheck with Bring It All To Me, which made me giggle. There were a few people there but there was still about half an hour before the first act was supposed to come on so we had time enough to wander, and since I bought the wrong kind of film for Miranda's camera, we went in search of some.
And searched.
And searched.
We did finally find a single little souvenir shop and bought their absolutely last roll of Advantix film. After a brief victory dance, we made it back to the stage just in time for the five o'clock festivities to begin. Instead, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Which, to be fair, was more annoying than anything else if you don't consider that the last time we ate was around one o'clock. The sky was somewhat overcast and there was a good breeze going, so we weren't exactly wilting out there like we could've been. The crowd was still surprisingly thin, though there were two girls up against the barricades in front of the stage with shirts that read "Schizophrenic" across their chests and "I [heart] J.C." on the back, each with a different photo. They also seemed to be wielding a very pink sign that read, in part, "If I Have the Right Teacher." I don't want to know what was on the front.
Aah, and speaking of the man himself. The stage was raised with the barricades about three feet away from it, Miranda and I standing about third-row deep - which is to say, we had a fantastic vantage point. For all the things that were going on, you see. *rolls eyes* Anyway, we're standing around, and I'm facing toward the left of the stage, which is where they designated the small VIP lawn cordoned off with a security guy and a moveable fence. There was nothing to be seen because of all the equipment and huge speakers, but there was a small gap between two of them and lo, who should step into view? I grinned hugely, grabbed Miranda's shoulders and turned her around so she could see, too. From where we were standing he was only visible from the shoulders up, so we moved over to the fence to get a better look.
The man is absolutely beyond adorable. Totally one of those "cats" who couldn't talk if you held their hands behind their backs. We just stood there for a bit and watched him talking to various people, radio station lackeys, and some girls. He was wearing a white shirt with a zipped-up brown jacket with a tan stripe down the sleeves that looked soft and fuzzy even from where we stood, about twenty feet away. His hair wasn't different from the way he had it on the Project, but I feel the need to mention that it was there and just as gorgeous as I've always suspected. He was also wearing one of the more unfortunate pants in creation, jeans sandblasted and dirtied to within an inch of their life, patched in different-sized rectangles like something by Piet Mondrian, even an errant cargo pocket. We're also back to his late-blooming handkerchief trend, right back pocket, navy blue stripes. However, his white Airwalk-style shoes looked entirely like he doodled on them with different color pens before wearing them out and that's a lot more cute than I was prepared to handle. He was smiling and talking in his cool, SoCal twangy way, obliging people with photos and just being the sweet, mellow dork he is even though it was readily apparent that he didn't belong there from the first.
He had a bodyguard with him whose identity Miranda and I couldn't agree on, but he seemed, at least to me, surprisingly small. In that way where he wasn't quite as hulking as pictures have made their security seem, not like I'd be inclined to mess with him. Carlos was there, too, wearing a pink jersey-style shirt with red sleeves and very obviously with a girl I don't think he ever let go of. He was looking mighty buff, too. They all eventually made their way to the building facing the concert stage via a small walkway created by a property wall on the other side and iron railing on ours. In an editorialized observation no one else will care about, JC walks in long strides with his head a little down like the learned cautiousness of someone who's made a grudging peace with the fact that as much as he wants to be just anyone when he's not onstage, he simply isn't.
Or you know, he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible before having to go onstage. He certainly and by all rights looked like he wanted to just phone this one in once he that happened.
Which wasn't just yet.
This was still only around six o'clock and the crowd pretty much had the same idea we did about passing the time, which was to make our own fun. There was an impromptu but highly entertaining danceoff between two boys, and the DJs caught on eventually that we were unentertained by both them and their attempts at spinning stuff that departed from the mainstream and eventually played all of Justin's singles that weren't Cry Me A River. Then pretended we were listening to the radio and would switch stations/get out of the car/whatever and not notice that they loop a seventy-minute tape and eventually played them all again. Someone needs to write fic wherein one or all of the guys exact their revenge on Justin for harshing their club buzz because his songs are all they ever play everywhere.
Oddly, though not as much when you hear why, Hulk Hogan was meandering through the small crowd. Eventually, he and a DJ got up onstage to introduce his daughter, who performed one song. Now, I'm usually very good with judging ages - this girl was allegedly fifteen, but I wouldn't have hesitated to call her twenty-two. She was process from head to toe, which was explained in short order as the proud daddy told us that she'd just signed with... Lou Pearlman. At which point Miranda and I both looked at each other with understanding and profound dismay. Doesn't anybody learn? The man's been in trouble for so many things other than the Backstreet and *NSYNC lawsuits, basically called a scoundrel to his face by everyone in the entertainment business, and yet people continue to trust him. The mind boggles.
*sigh* And sadly, speaking of, we were standing around chatting when I stopped mid-sentence, turned away from the fence and said, "Don't look behind you." Of course, given natural human tendency plus my reaction, she didn't heed my advice.
We were standing not ten feet from Lou Pearlman.
I could've lived a thousand lifetimes never running into that man and they would've been too few. There is such livid hatred in my heart for him, he may as well have personally wronged me. That fifty-second clip on VH1's Most Shocking Moments in Rock & Roll outlining the specifics of their contract dispute (not even mention jeopardizing Lance's health)? By the end of it, I was practically crying, shaking with the bile raging inside. I mean, god knows the music industry is only so big, especially the Orlando music industry as we're all aware, but this was possibly the evening's most glaring example of just how much JC did not belong here.
Anyway, we moved away and tried not to cringe too much at all the kids going up to hug him. He stayed to watch a couple more of the opening acts, ostensibly his fledgling prodigies, before finally making himself scarce just before JC came back out.
Okay, so, JC Chasez? The man is grace under fire personified. The DJs were inane but mercifully the only one he had to deal with directly his first time on was a girl who mostly knew what she was doing and didn't feel the need to try too hard. JC came on, was charming, got flirted with, looked adorable and smiled a lot, said what he was supposed to (if only what he was supposed to) and introduced the first official musical act, "another group of five guys who got their start in Orlando" who ended up being basically the boyband equivalent of a rock group called Natural, and left the stage, not pausing at all in VIP (this is where I briskly mention that Lou came from and went back to saidsame VIP area) before heading back to the building. He mostly watched the evening's festivities from a large second-floor balcony, walking to and from the stage as the acts required.
By this point, it was past eight o'clock, so Miranda and I all but bolted out of there to find food.
Aah, the madness that was navigating concession-lined streets with a Mardi Gras parade in progress and all accompanying festivities well underway. I got a corndog, which is always a party because I do love them so but only ever have at fairs, and we started making our way back to the stage. En route, I heard the radio on in one of the shops we passed and, recognizing JC's voice, paused just outside. At first we were worried that we'd overestimated how long Natural would be onstage but as it turned out, he gave the interview from somewhere inside the building. I'm so sad we didn't walk by just a few seconds sooner because JC was talking about the craziness that ensues when "six grown men in their prime" are locked into a dressing room together for two hours.
I'd do very inappropriate things to find out who the number six man was.
Anyhow, the rest of the interview was basically the same stuff we've been hearing, tell us about the album (by the way, he himself has now said January 27th, so it looks like this time the date is going to stick), how done is he with people mispronouncing his last name, yada yada yada. The DJ did talk to him about Force of Gravity and JC mentioned that BT approached him with it since he knew JC liked that kind of house trance stuff, and they wrote the lyrics within the day.
We arrived back at the 93.3 stage just in time to see JC introduce Blaque. He talked a little about *NSYNC doing Bring It All To Me with them so early on (wasn't that just Joey though?) and seemed to genuinely enjoy their music after bidding another hasty departure, head-bobbing along to their set from the balcony. They were good, got some people from the audience to dance with them on their last number which was fun.
He introduced Staci Orrico next, and in a cutely ironic turn of events managed to mispronounce her last name, which he said he would. He's adorable when flustered. She was sweet and quite good, played the hit songs and seemed to connect best with the surprisingly mixed audience so far. She also went fangirl on him when she went up to talk right after she got offstage. It's always cute to see famous people get excited about each other.
The crowd was getting fairly thick by now, so Miranda and I relocated to wait in our spots at third row center. The DJ started the intermission with Hey Ya, an instant hit with the entire audience who sang and danced along with arguably some of the night's best enthusiasm. They played Rumpshaker as well, which wouldn't have been half as funny ifbeatpropx hadn't just sent us the songvid to it the other night. As it stood, we laughed a lot, and not all of it appropriately. Which is pretty much us on any given day. *g*
At this point the DJs came out and started throwing packs of Mardi Gras beads into the audience. There were five of them at three packages a time so, yeah, there was quite a bit of ducking going on. I actually made a really smooth catch: it was coming straight for my head and I just plucked it out of the air - left-handed, too. Regardless, most everyone got beaned to some extent or another.
Cue one of the classiest things I've ever seen:
The audience has been throwing their own beads onstage for the past couple of performances, including JC's segments in-between. Anyway, he came back on to finally introduce BT. Anyway, while JC and the DJ are bantering most of the beads are landing at their feet, but one gets JC lightly in the chest. It wasn't thrown with any kind of malice, just misjudged. Regardless, the DJ kind of blanched and went silent. JC, however, did not miss a beat. He turned to the audience with this little grin and said, "Whoa, hold up, I didn't even show you nothing yet," while miming opening his shirt. The boy is too fabulous for our own good. I squealed, everyone laughed, he told us to be sure to appreciate the one-time experience that BT's show always is, and it was all gravy again until they brought out BT's iBook and sound setup.
And then it was madness of the best kind.
BT came out already completely psyched. He's thankfully had a haircut since the video and looked fantastic in a purple T-shirt and long-sleeved unbuttoned Oxford in the same color. He had so much fun up there, jumping around and messing with all kinds of crazy sound effects, encouraging us to listen to how cool it all was. The set wasn't about him at all, but the music.
BT's setlist:
Somnambulist
In Da Club
It's Tricky
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Force of Gravity
During Force of Gravity, there was this moment when he had the headphones around his ears and smiling in a way that made him look vaguely sinister as he brought the music down just as an opportune strong breeze blew in, ruffling the huge radio station banner behind him and everyone was holding their collective breath until he started this intensely deep bassline that resonated in my entire chest cavity before fading up the chorus. Goosebumps, man.
Also, he's sexy like a sexy thing and I was slashing him and JC in the studio soundboard set to bass-driven house trance within three minutes of the beginning of his set.
We hurriedly (and none too politely, for which I'd like to apologize) made our way out of the crowd to hustle over when we saw that BT had come right off the stage and to the fence separating us from the backstage VIP area. He was sweaty and grinning and shaking hands (psst,without_me - people he seemed to know called him Brian). He was lovely, talked to everyone in the crowd and took pictures with those who asked. Needless to say I seized upon the opportunity to shake his hand, told him the set was fantastic, and we all huddled together for a sweaty, grinny picture before Miranda and I skipped off to intercept JC, who had stayed backstage for BT's set.
And this is where things happened very quickly, the only part even vaguely in my control being the line, "JC, can we take a picture with you?"
This is where I impart my lesson gleaned from the nights' events: asking can go a very long way to receiving. No, really. Seriously, next time, just go the novel route and ask for what you want - I offer this whole evening as proof that it can be that simple. Life probably won't hold the pickle, but nine times out of ten, it'll still give you a good approximation of what you asked for. I recommend giving it a go, and often.
Onward.
We didn't want to stop JC as he was heading toward the stage for obvious reasons. There is really no call to inconvenience anyone, but people who are technically working and for something trivial like getting a picture with him? Come now. But we'd seen another girl who had successfully approached a gap in the back fence right near the entrance to the building earlier in the evening but no one else seemed to have noticed and I decided, hey, we're done with this place at this point and meeting JC was the one thing I really hoped to accomplish by coming to this event.
So, I did it. I walked up to the fence as they were passing by and said the aforementioned line, as sparkling in wit and originality as it was.
And he stopped, smiled sweetly, and said, "Sure, honey."
I almost melted on the spot.
The venue security guy opened the fence and Miranda and I slipped through. This was also where the higher brain functions mostly shut down, so the rest was completely on brainstem autopilot. I'm fairly certain my hands were shaking as I wrapped one arm around him and said, "Could you?" while extending the camera to his bodyguard.
He gave me a 'damn, this girl's got balls' look but took the camera, at which point I said something I've been snickering about inordinately ever since:
"Thank you, baby."
Now, before we explain this ostentatious choice of phrase, I would like the record to reflect that at this point, I had one arm around JC's waist and my other hand over his belly. A good case can certainly be made that my higher brain functions were at not at optimum levels. The whole encounter was pretty much a game of free association - it was like Emeril, where he's doing something and then he's onto something else before you've even caught onto the first one. *bam* You're meeting JC Chasez, what do you say to him? *bam* You're asking his bodyguard to take a picture for you, how do you go about that?
However, the fact remains that I called a very grown, large, black man 'baby.' In a drawly voice about half an octave lower than my normal one. *ahem*
Now, there are several explanations as to why I might have done this. One, 'baby' is fast becoming a common endearment for me to use in general, a trend I should probably nip in the bud. Second, I've got a crush on the song Don't Call Me Baby, which just makes the whole thing ironic but you can see how that would've been the first term to pop into my head. Thirdly, as mentioned, I previously thought it was Lonnie with him, but Miranda said she didn't think so and that people have said JC got Mike under the bodyguard-specific provisions set forth in the big *NSYNC hiatus custody settlement. Anyhow, I was no longer sure of his name and couldn't therefore use it and apparently couldn't leave well enough alone at a simple "thank you."
How amusing is it that I met JC and the story I'll probably be retelling is about his security detail? *g* Well, not quite, but you know what I mean.
Anyway, despite all that, said bodyguard chose to be amused and gave an incredulous little huff of breath as he took our picture.
Okay, so the picture thing in the first place. I'm not a 'get my picture taken with celebrities' kind of person. I won't lie and say I don't seize it when the occasion presents itself, but it's just not that important to me. I'd rather talk to them or just hang back and revel in getting to see them at all. However, this was JC, and to be completely honest, asking to take a picture is the easiest way to get to touch him.
Now, while others are all, "Ohmygod, I touched him, eee!" which is perfectly valid because, well, yeah, it's mostly the same sentiment but meant in an entirely different way for me. I warn you that the rest of my explanation wouldn't make too much more sense. It's a big dorky thing about not only putting the people I admire on a pedestal but the surreal element when it's someone famous and the whole degree of separation that television creates and how touching them somehow makes them real to me, that these cool people I think the world of actually exist as real people in my own real world.
I watched too much television and didn't have enough real role models as a child. Just go with me on this.
As far as talking, I don't freeze up, but rather open my mouth and what comes out is flustered, wit-free, and so nakedly honest it makes me want to crawl under a rock when all's said and done. Not that I have a problem with honesty, but there is just no good way to tell someone you think they're not just the icing but the whole German chocolate cake when you're in control of all your faculties, much less standing right in front of them.
So anyway, I touched JC, and he's real and warm and wonderful.
However, I took note of the important things, too. People say he's even better-looking up close, but they're just not exaggerating. There are few men who could honestly be called beautiful, but JC's definitely one of them, lately flirting with handsome, too, gaining the kind of chiseled angles to his features that being past your mid-twenties does which is just raising his stock. It's no secret that I adore his hair, and it's amusing me to no end that under the stage lights, you could see crossed bobby pins in it along the sides which didn't at all deter him from running his fingers through it repeatedly anyway. His eyes sparkle and he really does have a fantastic mouth, even if he does swallow half his end consonants.
One thing that struck me though - he's a lot more compact than one would think. He's perfectly well-proportioned, but a lot smaller overall than he seems on television and in photographs, or even just at a distance.
The Height Thing, as we continue to go round and round on the subject: the long lines of his body, especially his torso and his legs, make him look very deceptively tall - with me in flip-flops and him in soled shoes, the top of my head was almost level with his mouth.
His jacket was really soft, almost like velvet terrycloth. Oh, and that bit he mentioned about working out with a personal trainer again? Uh, I can vouch for that. His back and stomach, at least, were muscled in a truly pleasant way. You'll all be proud to know I refrained from flexing any fingers, but yes. Nice definition, not bony at all, and that's the JC I love best.
As far as strangest encounter hopes, some ask for a hug, others get even bolder - besides the touching thing (preferably by shaking their hand) I wanted to confirm what Joan Rivers has commented on at every red carpet event where they've crossed paths. In the whirlwind of things I forgot to smell him, but so it goes.
And words! I even managed words. Something to the effect of, "I think you're amazing, can't wait for the album, loved your performance on the Wade Robson Project." It mostly came from my reptilian brain, as they call it - all instinct, no actual rational thought. I opened my mouth, and there were words, which is amusing because I don't usually get flustered to the point of not being able to control what I'm saying.
Which would be because I don't really make conversation with random strangers easily, and if it looks even remotely like I'll get the chance to say something to a specific person, I'll spend literally hours coming up with three lines. Like, really, it would never occur to me to ask after their pets or their siblings - that's just weird, man, people not only knowing your name but those of your dogs and sister *and* the baby she just had? There is no call to creep people out like that. Personally, I get indignant when people presume to know things about me; I'd feel out of line if the tables were turned.
What I did say was nothing he hasn't already heard, but I also said the very basic gist of everything I've ever wanted to say to him, too: I think the world of the boy in all ways, but as there's no real good way to go about conveying that, the word 'amazing' did me just fine. He's a crazy talented songwriter, lyrics and words and I couldn't love what he does any more than I already do. It's creative, often slinky, and always fun, and I can't wait to hear this CD and what he did on it that was so "him," as he's quoted the other guys saying. And all the sound people who should rightly be maimed for the WRP performance couldn't possibly have hoped to tarnish the (yes, slightly raw) elements of the talent and personality in those songs. The boy moves like a dream, and I was honestly surprised by all the rock star in him for being so laid-back in all other ways.
It's entirely possible that the picture won't come out at all, as it was nearly pitch black where we were standing. I can't with any honesty say that I care much. Basically, if not as coherently as I would've liked, I got to say and do everything I've ever wanted if given the opportunity to have a moment with him. Being a scenario person, I always run through a thousand things that can go right or wrong with any situation, which means I'm usually overprepared and at least to some degree disappointed. Well, tonight, for about the five minutes it took my parasympathetic nervous system to counteract the jolt of adrenaline there was this incredible feeling, like when you're going over the top of a hill on a rollercoaster - everything inside felt suspended in midair, the wonderful emptiness that is being completely free of desire where nothing else but that feeling exists because nothing else matters. It also makes for some fascinatingly clearheaded thinking which makes sense but regardless, the novelty of it wasn't lost on me.
After we went our separate ways and hopefully waiting long enough that he was inside the building again, I let out one of the loudest and highest-pitched noises I've ever made before practically pouncing on Miranda, hugging her between bubbles of giddy laughter. And so, severely dehydrated, high as a kite on adrenaline, and inordinately gleeful, we wound our way back through the melee and even got home in time to get some celebratory Coldstone ice cream.
I love him. Every single classy, beautiful, talented, irreverent, sweet particle of his constitution.
And that's my story.
In short, and so you're duly forewarned because this is the only time in this entry that you'll get that small favor, I met JC Chasez, and it was good.
This ended up being too long. Even I acknowledge this. But the experience was what it was, and this is it, unabridged.
Having finally burned the definitive Ephemeral mix,
walkingshadow and I set out of Gainesville around two o'clock. We haven't spent real quality time together in at least a week so between dueting we got in a good bit of conversation. Also, the road to Tampa is much better, not to mention prettier, than the one to Orlando, which made the drive that much more pleasant.Forsaking practicality for an assumably packed, walking-requiring outdoor activity, I wore my new, knee-length, grey Gap skirt with a sleeveless, artistically-ripped-cotton-with-mesh-underneath white top (I've otherwise completely missed the British rocker look coming back in style), orange bandana with my watch around my left wrist and a black mesh "armwarmer" on my right, and my beloved sparkly black flip-flops.
Okay, now, you can't see me and not that I wield any such power anyway, but trust when I say that if I did, I would be surreptitiously and without any mercy firing every last person in charge of JC's promotion. Right after this event of course, but seriously yo, these boys have paid their Tampa Bay Guavaween dues. I don't know whose brainchild the Teen Nick thing was, but as everyone has mentioned it was totally out of his target demographic for this album. And just because they decide to go it solo, doesn't mean they have to start back on the bottom, at small local radio station variety shows. *shakes head*
Anyhow.
First of all, Guavaween sounded like a grand family Halloween affair in the quaint historic Ybor district of downtown Tampa, by the official web site's description. In actuality, family-themed turned out to be a mixture of high schoolers and the headbanging thirtysomething crowd that just never learned to let go of heavy metal. Halloween turned out to be represented only insofar as some people were wearing costumes, but the rest was all some mid-year anniversary celebration of Mardi Gras. And by quaintly historic was more like the kind of dust storm-worn, rundown town of about three streets in each direction you see in old Hollywood Westerns.
There were several radio stations with stages set up at different locations, but it wasn't hard to find the 93.3 stage - Blaque was doing soundcheck with Bring It All To Me, which made me giggle. There were a few people there but there was still about half an hour before the first act was supposed to come on so we had time enough to wander, and since I bought the wrong kind of film for Miranda's camera, we went in search of some.
And searched.
And searched.
We did finally find a single little souvenir shop and bought their absolutely last roll of Advantix film. After a brief victory dance, we made it back to the stage just in time for the five o'clock festivities to begin. Instead, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Which, to be fair, was more annoying than anything else if you don't consider that the last time we ate was around one o'clock. The sky was somewhat overcast and there was a good breeze going, so we weren't exactly wilting out there like we could've been. The crowd was still surprisingly thin, though there were two girls up against the barricades in front of the stage with shirts that read "Schizophrenic" across their chests and "I [heart] J.C." on the back, each with a different photo. They also seemed to be wielding a very pink sign that read, in part, "If I Have the Right Teacher." I don't want to know what was on the front.
Aah, and speaking of the man himself. The stage was raised with the barricades about three feet away from it, Miranda and I standing about third-row deep - which is to say, we had a fantastic vantage point. For all the things that were going on, you see. *rolls eyes* Anyway, we're standing around, and I'm facing toward the left of the stage, which is where they designated the small VIP lawn cordoned off with a security guy and a moveable fence. There was nothing to be seen because of all the equipment and huge speakers, but there was a small gap between two of them and lo, who should step into view? I grinned hugely, grabbed Miranda's shoulders and turned her around so she could see, too. From where we were standing he was only visible from the shoulders up, so we moved over to the fence to get a better look.
The man is absolutely beyond adorable. Totally one of those "cats" who couldn't talk if you held their hands behind their backs. We just stood there for a bit and watched him talking to various people, radio station lackeys, and some girls. He was wearing a white shirt with a zipped-up brown jacket with a tan stripe down the sleeves that looked soft and fuzzy even from where we stood, about twenty feet away. His hair wasn't different from the way he had it on the Project, but I feel the need to mention that it was there and just as gorgeous as I've always suspected. He was also wearing one of the more unfortunate pants in creation, jeans sandblasted and dirtied to within an inch of their life, patched in different-sized rectangles like something by Piet Mondrian, even an errant cargo pocket. We're also back to his late-blooming handkerchief trend, right back pocket, navy blue stripes. However, his white Airwalk-style shoes looked entirely like he doodled on them with different color pens before wearing them out and that's a lot more cute than I was prepared to handle. He was smiling and talking in his cool, SoCal twangy way, obliging people with photos and just being the sweet, mellow dork he is even though it was readily apparent that he didn't belong there from the first.
He had a bodyguard with him whose identity Miranda and I couldn't agree on, but he seemed, at least to me, surprisingly small. In that way where he wasn't quite as hulking as pictures have made their security seem, not like I'd be inclined to mess with him. Carlos was there, too, wearing a pink jersey-style shirt with red sleeves and very obviously with a girl I don't think he ever let go of. He was looking mighty buff, too. They all eventually made their way to the building facing the concert stage via a small walkway created by a property wall on the other side and iron railing on ours. In an editorialized observation no one else will care about, JC walks in long strides with his head a little down like the learned cautiousness of someone who's made a grudging peace with the fact that as much as he wants to be just anyone when he's not onstage, he simply isn't.
Or you know, he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible before having to go onstage. He certainly and by all rights looked like he wanted to just phone this one in once he that happened.
Which wasn't just yet.
This was still only around six o'clock and the crowd pretty much had the same idea we did about passing the time, which was to make our own fun. There was an impromptu but highly entertaining danceoff between two boys, and the DJs caught on eventually that we were unentertained by both them and their attempts at spinning stuff that departed from the mainstream and eventually played all of Justin's singles that weren't Cry Me A River. Then pretended we were listening to the radio and would switch stations/get out of the car/whatever and not notice that they loop a seventy-minute tape and eventually played them all again. Someone needs to write fic wherein one or all of the guys exact their revenge on Justin for harshing their club buzz because his songs are all they ever play everywhere.
Oddly, though not as much when you hear why, Hulk Hogan was meandering through the small crowd. Eventually, he and a DJ got up onstage to introduce his daughter, who performed one song. Now, I'm usually very good with judging ages - this girl was allegedly fifteen, but I wouldn't have hesitated to call her twenty-two. She was process from head to toe, which was explained in short order as the proud daddy told us that she'd just signed with... Lou Pearlman. At which point Miranda and I both looked at each other with understanding and profound dismay. Doesn't anybody learn? The man's been in trouble for so many things other than the Backstreet and *NSYNC lawsuits, basically called a scoundrel to his face by everyone in the entertainment business, and yet people continue to trust him. The mind boggles.
*sigh* And sadly, speaking of, we were standing around chatting when I stopped mid-sentence, turned away from the fence and said, "Don't look behind you." Of course, given natural human tendency plus my reaction, she didn't heed my advice.
We were standing not ten feet from Lou Pearlman.
I could've lived a thousand lifetimes never running into that man and they would've been too few. There is such livid hatred in my heart for him, he may as well have personally wronged me. That fifty-second clip on VH1's Most Shocking Moments in Rock & Roll outlining the specifics of their contract dispute (not even mention jeopardizing Lance's health)? By the end of it, I was practically crying, shaking with the bile raging inside. I mean, god knows the music industry is only so big, especially the Orlando music industry as we're all aware, but this was possibly the evening's most glaring example of just how much JC did not belong here.
Anyway, we moved away and tried not to cringe too much at all the kids going up to hug him. He stayed to watch a couple more of the opening acts, ostensibly his fledgling prodigies, before finally making himself scarce just before JC came back out.
Okay, so, JC Chasez? The man is grace under fire personified. The DJs were inane but mercifully the only one he had to deal with directly his first time on was a girl who mostly knew what she was doing and didn't feel the need to try too hard. JC came on, was charming, got flirted with, looked adorable and smiled a lot, said what he was supposed to (if only what he was supposed to) and introduced the first official musical act, "another group of five guys who got their start in Orlando" who ended up being basically the boyband equivalent of a rock group called Natural, and left the stage, not pausing at all in VIP (this is where I briskly mention that Lou came from and went back to saidsame VIP area) before heading back to the building. He mostly watched the evening's festivities from a large second-floor balcony, walking to and from the stage as the acts required.
By this point, it was past eight o'clock, so Miranda and I all but bolted out of there to find food.
Aah, the madness that was navigating concession-lined streets with a Mardi Gras parade in progress and all accompanying festivities well underway. I got a corndog, which is always a party because I do love them so but only ever have at fairs, and we started making our way back to the stage. En route, I heard the radio on in one of the shops we passed and, recognizing JC's voice, paused just outside. At first we were worried that we'd overestimated how long Natural would be onstage but as it turned out, he gave the interview from somewhere inside the building. I'm so sad we didn't walk by just a few seconds sooner because JC was talking about the craziness that ensues when "six grown men in their prime" are locked into a dressing room together for two hours.
I'd do very inappropriate things to find out who the number six man was.
Anyhow, the rest of the interview was basically the same stuff we've been hearing, tell us about the album (by the way, he himself has now said January 27th, so it looks like this time the date is going to stick), how done is he with people mispronouncing his last name, yada yada yada. The DJ did talk to him about Force of Gravity and JC mentioned that BT approached him with it since he knew JC liked that kind of house trance stuff, and they wrote the lyrics within the day.
We arrived back at the 93.3 stage just in time to see JC introduce Blaque. He talked a little about *NSYNC doing Bring It All To Me with them so early on (wasn't that just Joey though?) and seemed to genuinely enjoy their music after bidding another hasty departure, head-bobbing along to their set from the balcony. They were good, got some people from the audience to dance with them on their last number which was fun.
He introduced Staci Orrico next, and in a cutely ironic turn of events managed to mispronounce her last name, which he said he would. He's adorable when flustered. She was sweet and quite good, played the hit songs and seemed to connect best with the surprisingly mixed audience so far. She also went fangirl on him when she went up to talk right after she got offstage. It's always cute to see famous people get excited about each other.
The crowd was getting fairly thick by now, so Miranda and I relocated to wait in our spots at third row center. The DJ started the intermission with Hey Ya, an instant hit with the entire audience who sang and danced along with arguably some of the night's best enthusiasm. They played Rumpshaker as well, which wouldn't have been half as funny if
beatpropx hadn't just sent us the songvid to it the other night. As it stood, we laughed a lot, and not all of it appropriately. Which is pretty much us on any given day. *g*At this point the DJs came out and started throwing packs of Mardi Gras beads into the audience. There were five of them at three packages a time so, yeah, there was quite a bit of ducking going on. I actually made a really smooth catch: it was coming straight for my head and I just plucked it out of the air - left-handed, too. Regardless, most everyone got beaned to some extent or another.
Cue one of the classiest things I've ever seen:
The audience has been throwing their own beads onstage for the past couple of performances, including JC's segments in-between. Anyway, he came back on to finally introduce BT. Anyway, while JC and the DJ are bantering most of the beads are landing at their feet, but one gets JC lightly in the chest. It wasn't thrown with any kind of malice, just misjudged. Regardless, the DJ kind of blanched and went silent. JC, however, did not miss a beat. He turned to the audience with this little grin and said, "Whoa, hold up, I didn't even show you nothing yet," while miming opening his shirt. The boy is too fabulous for our own good. I squealed, everyone laughed, he told us to be sure to appreciate the one-time experience that BT's show always is, and it was all gravy again until they brought out BT's iBook and sound setup.
And then it was madness of the best kind.
BT came out already completely psyched. He's thankfully had a haircut since the video and looked fantastic in a purple T-shirt and long-sleeved unbuttoned Oxford in the same color. He had so much fun up there, jumping around and messing with all kinds of crazy sound effects, encouraging us to listen to how cool it all was. The set wasn't about him at all, but the music.
BT's setlist:
Somnambulist
In Da Club
It's Tricky
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Force of Gravity
During Force of Gravity, there was this moment when he had the headphones around his ears and smiling in a way that made him look vaguely sinister as he brought the music down just as an opportune strong breeze blew in, ruffling the huge radio station banner behind him and everyone was holding their collective breath until he started this intensely deep bassline that resonated in my entire chest cavity before fading up the chorus. Goosebumps, man.
Also, he's sexy like a sexy thing and I was slashing him and JC in the studio soundboard set to bass-driven house trance within three minutes of the beginning of his set.
We hurriedly (and none too politely, for which I'd like to apologize) made our way out of the crowd to hustle over when we saw that BT had come right off the stage and to the fence separating us from the backstage VIP area. He was sweaty and grinning and shaking hands (psst,
without_me - people he seemed to know called him Brian). He was lovely, talked to everyone in the crowd and took pictures with those who asked. Needless to say I seized upon the opportunity to shake his hand, told him the set was fantastic, and we all huddled together for a sweaty, grinny picture before Miranda and I skipped off to intercept JC, who had stayed backstage for BT's set.And this is where things happened very quickly, the only part even vaguely in my control being the line, "JC, can we take a picture with you?"
This is where I impart my lesson gleaned from the nights' events: asking can go a very long way to receiving. No, really. Seriously, next time, just go the novel route and ask for what you want - I offer this whole evening as proof that it can be that simple. Life probably won't hold the pickle, but nine times out of ten, it'll still give you a good approximation of what you asked for. I recommend giving it a go, and often.
Onward.
We didn't want to stop JC as he was heading toward the stage for obvious reasons. There is really no call to inconvenience anyone, but people who are technically working and for something trivial like getting a picture with him? Come now. But we'd seen another girl who had successfully approached a gap in the back fence right near the entrance to the building earlier in the evening but no one else seemed to have noticed and I decided, hey, we're done with this place at this point and meeting JC was the one thing I really hoped to accomplish by coming to this event.
So, I did it. I walked up to the fence as they were passing by and said the aforementioned line, as sparkling in wit and originality as it was.
And he stopped, smiled sweetly, and said, "Sure, honey."
I almost melted on the spot.
The venue security guy opened the fence and Miranda and I slipped through. This was also where the higher brain functions mostly shut down, so the rest was completely on brainstem autopilot. I'm fairly certain my hands were shaking as I wrapped one arm around him and said, "Could you?" while extending the camera to his bodyguard.
He gave me a 'damn, this girl's got balls' look but took the camera, at which point I said something I've been snickering about inordinately ever since:
"Thank you, baby."
Now, before we explain this ostentatious choice of phrase, I would like the record to reflect that at this point, I had one arm around JC's waist and my other hand over his belly. A good case can certainly be made that my higher brain functions were at not at optimum levels. The whole encounter was pretty much a game of free association - it was like Emeril, where he's doing something and then he's onto something else before you've even caught onto the first one. *bam* You're meeting JC Chasez, what do you say to him? *bam* You're asking his bodyguard to take a picture for you, how do you go about that?
However, the fact remains that I called a very grown, large, black man 'baby.' In a drawly voice about half an octave lower than my normal one. *ahem*
Now, there are several explanations as to why I might have done this. One, 'baby' is fast becoming a common endearment for me to use in general, a trend I should probably nip in the bud. Second, I've got a crush on the song Don't Call Me Baby, which just makes the whole thing ironic but you can see how that would've been the first term to pop into my head. Thirdly, as mentioned, I previously thought it was Lonnie with him, but Miranda said she didn't think so and that people have said JC got Mike under the bodyguard-specific provisions set forth in the big *NSYNC hiatus custody settlement. Anyhow, I was no longer sure of his name and couldn't therefore use it and apparently couldn't leave well enough alone at a simple "thank you."
How amusing is it that I met JC and the story I'll probably be retelling is about his security detail? *g* Well, not quite, but you know what I mean.
Anyway, despite all that, said bodyguard chose to be amused and gave an incredulous little huff of breath as he took our picture.
Okay, so the picture thing in the first place. I'm not a 'get my picture taken with celebrities' kind of person. I won't lie and say I don't seize it when the occasion presents itself, but it's just not that important to me. I'd rather talk to them or just hang back and revel in getting to see them at all. However, this was JC, and to be completely honest, asking to take a picture is the easiest way to get to touch him.
Now, while others are all, "Ohmygod, I touched him, eee!" which is perfectly valid because, well, yeah, it's mostly the same sentiment but meant in an entirely different way for me. I warn you that the rest of my explanation wouldn't make too much more sense. It's a big dorky thing about not only putting the people I admire on a pedestal but the surreal element when it's someone famous and the whole degree of separation that television creates and how touching them somehow makes them real to me, that these cool people I think the world of actually exist as real people in my own real world.
I watched too much television and didn't have enough real role models as a child. Just go with me on this.
As far as talking, I don't freeze up, but rather open my mouth and what comes out is flustered, wit-free, and so nakedly honest it makes me want to crawl under a rock when all's said and done. Not that I have a problem with honesty, but there is just no good way to tell someone you think they're not just the icing but the whole German chocolate cake when you're in control of all your faculties, much less standing right in front of them.
So anyway, I touched JC, and he's real and warm and wonderful.
However, I took note of the important things, too. People say he's even better-looking up close, but they're just not exaggerating. There are few men who could honestly be called beautiful, but JC's definitely one of them, lately flirting with handsome, too, gaining the kind of chiseled angles to his features that being past your mid-twenties does which is just raising his stock. It's no secret that I adore his hair, and it's amusing me to no end that under the stage lights, you could see crossed bobby pins in it along the sides which didn't at all deter him from running his fingers through it repeatedly anyway. His eyes sparkle and he really does have a fantastic mouth, even if he does swallow half his end consonants.
One thing that struck me though - he's a lot more compact than one would think. He's perfectly well-proportioned, but a lot smaller overall than he seems on television and in photographs, or even just at a distance.
The Height Thing, as we continue to go round and round on the subject: the long lines of his body, especially his torso and his legs, make him look very deceptively tall - with me in flip-flops and him in soled shoes, the top of my head was almost level with his mouth.
His jacket was really soft, almost like velvet terrycloth. Oh, and that bit he mentioned about working out with a personal trainer again? Uh, I can vouch for that. His back and stomach, at least, were muscled in a truly pleasant way. You'll all be proud to know I refrained from flexing any fingers, but yes. Nice definition, not bony at all, and that's the JC I love best.
As far as strangest encounter hopes, some ask for a hug, others get even bolder - besides the touching thing (preferably by shaking their hand) I wanted to confirm what Joan Rivers has commented on at every red carpet event where they've crossed paths. In the whirlwind of things I forgot to smell him, but so it goes.
And words! I even managed words. Something to the effect of, "I think you're amazing, can't wait for the album, loved your performance on the Wade Robson Project." It mostly came from my reptilian brain, as they call it - all instinct, no actual rational thought. I opened my mouth, and there were words, which is amusing because I don't usually get flustered to the point of not being able to control what I'm saying.
Which would be because I don't really make conversation with random strangers easily, and if it looks even remotely like I'll get the chance to say something to a specific person, I'll spend literally hours coming up with three lines. Like, really, it would never occur to me to ask after their pets or their siblings - that's just weird, man, people not only knowing your name but those of your dogs and sister *and* the baby she just had? There is no call to creep people out like that. Personally, I get indignant when people presume to know things about me; I'd feel out of line if the tables were turned.
What I did say was nothing he hasn't already heard, but I also said the very basic gist of everything I've ever wanted to say to him, too: I think the world of the boy in all ways, but as there's no real good way to go about conveying that, the word 'amazing' did me just fine. He's a crazy talented songwriter, lyrics and words and I couldn't love what he does any more than I already do. It's creative, often slinky, and always fun, and I can't wait to hear this CD and what he did on it that was so "him," as he's quoted the other guys saying. And all the sound people who should rightly be maimed for the WRP performance couldn't possibly have hoped to tarnish the (yes, slightly raw) elements of the talent and personality in those songs. The boy moves like a dream, and I was honestly surprised by all the rock star in him for being so laid-back in all other ways.
It's entirely possible that the picture won't come out at all, as it was nearly pitch black where we were standing. I can't with any honesty say that I care much. Basically, if not as coherently as I would've liked, I got to say and do everything I've ever wanted if given the opportunity to have a moment with him. Being a scenario person, I always run through a thousand things that can go right or wrong with any situation, which means I'm usually overprepared and at least to some degree disappointed. Well, tonight, for about the five minutes it took my parasympathetic nervous system to counteract the jolt of adrenaline there was this incredible feeling, like when you're going over the top of a hill on a rollercoaster - everything inside felt suspended in midair, the wonderful emptiness that is being completely free of desire where nothing else but that feeling exists because nothing else matters. It also makes for some fascinatingly clearheaded thinking which makes sense but regardless, the novelty of it wasn't lost on me.
After we went our separate ways and hopefully waiting long enough that he was inside the building again, I let out one of the loudest and highest-pitched noises I've ever made before practically pouncing on Miranda, hugging her between bubbles of giddy laughter. And so, severely dehydrated, high as a kite on adrenaline, and inordinately gleeful, we wound our way back through the melee and even got home in time to get some celebratory Coldstone ice cream.
I love him. Every single classy, beautiful, talented, irreverent, sweet particle of his constitution.
And that's my story.
