The Sickest Week Ever Part 2

It all started out innocently enough. My sister and I bought tickets to the Fun. concert about a month ago and had been patiently awaiting their San Antonio show. I flew in for the occasion because, let's face it: seeing them once just isn't enough.

So that morning, I went running, played some music, and did many things to get my mind off the auditory awesomeness that would shortly ensue. At one point, I decided the “I Love Fun” shirt I painted a week before was just too plain. So I sifted through every lyric of all their songs to find the perfect one to immortalize on my chest. Somehow when I was painting it, the phrase “shake me down” did not seem as inappropriate as when I flaunted it in a notoriously sketchy part of town late at night. So two hours later, with the help of my niece and nephew, I had myself a shirt I could never wear again—not even to the gym.

It was time to go, so Emily and I hopped in the car and bopped to Fun. music the entire car ride. Because I had met the band’s keyboardist when they came through Salt Lake City, I asked Emily what she thought if I gave the keyboardist my phone number. Emily and I joked that somehow rock stars who get chicks’ numbers at concerts are not expecting what I’m wanting—slurping a Sonic slush and playing a good game of cosmic bowling. So I thought, “Well why don’t I just make my intentions clear?” I began to write this note on scrap paper my sister had available:

The concert was great, if by great I mean being the only two twenty-somethings in a sweaty pen of hormonal high schoolers. Next time I might just stay home and watch them on Austin City Limits. As we started to leave, though, we asked a venue employee to take our picture. When it became apparent that the band wasn’t coming out to sign autographs, we asked this employee if he had backstage access. He said yes. I told him about my encounter with the keyboardist in Salt Lake and how I had written him a note. The employee agreed to deliver my note. But because this kid was pushing sixteen and my note was somewhat juvenile, I doubted it would ever get passed the chuckles of his group of friends.

Oh well. I went to bed. But then things got a little crazy. The next day as I was taking a nap, I got a call from a Chicago number. I normally don’t answer if I don’t know who’s calling me but somehow I suspected who the caller was. It was the keyboardist! Yep, he had called.

But of course nothing came of it. It turns out he’s more of a Wendy’s frosty kind of guy.


P.S.--This was my feeble attempt to cover up the double meaning screaming off my shirt.

I'm still waiting for my Sonic-loving stud.