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Third Eye Blind

Johnson Athletic Center

April 25, 2008

Dear girl from Boston College who stood in front of me at the Third Eye Blind show,

I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes on you … well, at least from the moment I saw your twin sister, who was straddling her brotesque boyfriend’s polo-sporting shoulders and waving her cell phone in the air. She was bellowing unintelligibly from her amorous post, summoning some unknown creature towards her while hovering above a crowd dense with sweaty tank top-wearing bodies. That creature was you. As Howie Day crooned lamely over his weakly rhythmic acoustic strummings, you wiggled your tanning-salon-brown body directly in front of me, and gyrated and squealed as Day finished up his hit song “Collide.” At that point, it was hard to distinguish you from the rest of the rock-concert-virgin fans that packed Johnson Athletic Center; they were all taking pictures of each other with arms extended, completely ignoring the (admittedly boring) troubadour on stage. But once Day nonchalantly unplugged his wooden instrument of aural mediocrity, you and your six-foot-six boyfriend started to really piss me off.

Have you ever been to a concert before? No? Here are some hints for next time you decide to doom a venue with your presence; hopefully, you’ll be able to avoid the potential violence I might’ve unleashed on you had your body odor not turned me away before I had the chance. Tip 1: When everyone else at the show is pushing forward, please do not push back. Sandwich meats can only withstand so much pressure. Tip 2: Making out with and humping your boyfriend while dancing like my mom doesn’t really conserve space, either. Tip 3: When aforementioned sandwich meat kindly asks you to stop leaning back into her, turning around to face your victim and continually screaming “I don’t know what you want!” with vodka-scented breath probably won’t aid the conflict. Tip 4: If all else fails, you should probably abstain from rubbing yourself on me to prove a point. All it’s proving is that your bacne covers a pretty massive surface area.

Lucky for you, I managed to escape the hulking crowd and make it to the bleachers, where my friend (who’d had less tolerance with you and had already fled your general vicinity) was sitting. Our much improved and far less sweltering spot did little to combat the ruined mood of the evening. Third Eye Blind took the stage with presence, no doubt, but it was the kind of presence that makes people like you shriek and turns off anyone who actually likes music. “I have a feeling we’re gonna’ have a real good time tonight,” lead singer/asshole in a top hat Stephan Jenkins proclaimed, and followed it up with, “I don’t know what it is, but you guys have me in a really good mood!” He proceeded to lead his rag-tag replacement band — comprised of none of the original musicians from 3eb’s 1997 seminal self-titled release — through a set of mostly new material, filled with lyrical leakage about boob jobs and non-dairy creamer. I am sure you were one of the many ticket holders who continually shouted for “Semi-Charmed Life,” and to be honest, I was internally shouting with you; ever since the turn of the twenty-first century, this band has been putting out material that would make any sane songwriter want to step off that ledge, not step back from it. But don’t be fooled into thinking we’re allies because of my distaste for Jenkins’ new tunes; unlike you, I didn’t eat it up when the band played a terribly unlistenable set a-la MTV Unplugged (minus the ability) on a makeshift stage at the back of Johnson, nor did I applaud when a random girl came on stage to melodramatically strum an inaudible acoustic guitar (royal WTF?). In fact, between your behavior and 3eb’s performance, I’m willing to say that out of the many shows I’ve attended, Spring Weekend was the worst concert of my life. Don’t take it as a compliment, but I fear the fault probably lies more with the band than with you.

Anyway, I tried to find you on Facebook after the concert to tell you how much you suck as a human, but I’m just not a skilled enough stalker. So you’re safe for now. But if I run into you next year when Hanson or whoever plays MIT, you better be sober enough to run.

Hate,

Sarah