It’s hard to explain what makes me tick, especially when circumstances change and the same phrase can put me into a tizzy one day, and not mean a damn thing the next.

I’m an oddball, I know this.

But there are just certain things I don’t cope well with and being told what to do ranks at the very, very, very top.

Y’see, my dad’s a bit of a dickhead. I love him to death, but the man has issues. And for as long as I can remember, his way of communicating was to just boss people around. If you could’ve heard some of the shit he said to my mother, your head would spin.

Of course, it doesn’t just stop there because there were two other members of the family in the house as well. My dad is a retired U.S. Soldier. For twenty years of his life, he worked in such a structured environment that he really didn’t learn any different.

Everything - and I mean everything - depended on rank.

Naturally, he brought this attitude home with him. He was the male, he was the oldest, he was therefore King of his Throne and nobody ever should go against that.

Except, nobody else in the family was in the military. It took me a damn decade to figure out what the hell “at ease” meant and why on earth he would constantly say it to us.

His alcohol infused tirades were always the worst, as you can surely imagine.

So, while I realize that other people aren’t really trying to do what my dad did, there are just certain things that trigger an involuntary rage in me that starts in the pit of my stomach and reaches every crevice of my body within seconds.

I heat up like a blow torch.

I’m working towards calming myself. I’m loads better than I was in the past… but like I said, certain things still trigger it.

I can’t handle being told what I need to do. I just can’t. It immediately filters into, “who the hell does this person think they are and why the hell do they think they can talk to me like that?!”

It can be over the most trivial of things and I’ll still blow it out of proportion.

It’s a part of me I don’t much care for, but a part of me that I fear is here to stay. There are so many different ways to communicate and telling someone outright what they ought to be doing just doesn’t sit well.

Don’t even get me started on being called names. If it’s obviously in jest, I can usually handle it. But again, certain words are totally stricken from being acceptable.

And yes, it’s because my dad sucked at communicating what he really wanted to say and always resorted to name calling instead - to the detriment of my impressionable mind.

Being that I work where I work, I now know that young brains develop entirely differently from adult brains. As adults, we’re much more able to filter things out and compartmentalize things, but as children it’s a whole different ballgame.

I was no different and these days I’m working towards letting things of the past go. They do nothing but hinder the future.

So here’s the deal.

I don’t think I’ll ever shake this love I have for the Backstreet Boys.

I know, half of you are laughing. Some of you are nodding. Others of you are sighing.

I don’t much care.

This can not be helped. It is so wholly ingrained in me that none of this should really be any surprise to you at all.

It started when I was 13 and visiting my grandparents in Germany. It was 1994 and the Boys were HUGE over there. I mean, it was ridiculous. And I was thirteen.

Upon my return to the U.S., I lost touch with the whole thing. I had borrowed my friend’s CD for the summer in Germany with no way to record it. Skip to a couple years later and they’re dancing to As Long As You Love Me on the European MTV Awards on my television set.

I was instantly hooked. Well, re-hooked. I didn’t realize yet they were the same band my tween-self had fallen in love with. Not until I borrowed another German friend’s CD, played the disc, and realized I was singing every song from beginning to end.

Somewhere along the way it clicked and I made sure that I saw them at the Constitution Hall in DC on January 23, 1998.

My first concert in life.

I had just turned 16.

I was in the thirteenth row.

It was the beginning of one of the craziest “eras” of my life. I’m not all that old, but I’m pretty sure that nothing will compare to the sheer amount of tour-hopping, magazine collecting, television show recording, money spending, road-trip induced memories I have stored from that whole time period.

It’s no big secret that I was an outcast in high school. That I disliked my peers. That I hated life. That I didn’t get along with my family and that life for a while there was hectic, if not downright upsetting.

I was young and dumb and had no idea how to cope with anything.

I know this is why I latched on to the sugary-pop music of that particular boyband. I know that not a lot of people will ever understand.

None of it matters.

Some kids turned to drugs, other kids turned to angry music, still others turn to sports.

Well. I turned to them and the entire thing. In hindsight, some of it was entirely over the top and completely unnecessary. But I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Not one.

I connected with other fans all around the globe. People I still keep in touch with today, ten years after the fact. People that helped me get through some of the most mind-bending years of my life. People that would fly from out of the country just to visit me. People that would save me front row spots for concerts. People that would go half with me on hotel rooms. People that gave me a free ticket for a DLF Charity Cruise (read: cruising with a Backstreet Boy). People that would listen to me at all hours of the night. People that I hold so close to my heart that I can’t give it proper justice.

This is the reason for my fanaticism. This is the reason I can’t just “shake it off.”

I know it sounds silly when you just look at the surface of it all. But if you dig a little deeper, you’ll see that there’s this massive community of like-minded people who were my crutch when I needed one the most. I won’t get into the nitty gritty, but I was suicidal for a time period and I can legitimately say that without people like Kat and Emma, I might not be here today.

You don’t know who they are, but I do. And I met them through our mutual love for this “boyband”.

And then?

Then I started to meet the Backstreet Boys. The first time that happened, I was 18. It was February 18, 2000 in State-College, Pennsylvania.

After idolizing them for years, I had no idea what to expect. But they were all so incredibly sweet it’s uncanny. Then I met them again. And again. And then some more.

Soon enough I was given accounting duties for Howie’s Dorough Lupus Foundation (DLF) fund raiser/charity event. For those of you not in the know, Howie is one of the BSB members and his sister died of Lupus several years back, after which he and his family formed this foundation.

During the last tour, I met a young lady with lupus who was told by her doctor that without the DLF’s contribution to raising awareness and funding for lupus, she wouldn’t have the medication she desperately needed.

And it’s moments like that which solidify my love for this boy band. I don’t care how stupid it sounds to anyone. I love them and that’s that.

Oh, and last night? I fulfilled my promise to Maxie and she met 3/4ths of the current line up thanks to an inside tip from head of security. Being a fan for the past 13 years seems to come with its perks. When Brian mentioned he remembered me from YEARS past, I turned back into my inner thirteen year old.

Tonight’s the concert.

I’m so excited I might shit a brick.

You’ve met them, I’m sure of it. Fans of all sorts of things - music, anime, artists, television shows, etc. They can be pretty nutty with their intense focus on whatever it is they like.

For the longest time I thought fans of “higher caliber” music would certainly behave in a much better way than fans of music in the “lower echelon.”

Firstly, the rating of music as being better than the next is certainly a subjective thing. Your Grade-A might be my Grade-F and vice versa.

For all intents and purposes, Radiohead is Grade-A in my book, or Grade-A++++++++. Feel free to pick your poison. O-Town, in comparison, is way down in Below Zero. See how I did that? They suck so badly they don’t even rate on a grading scale.

Back to my initial point: The Fans.

You’d think that fans of Radiohead would be different from fans of Jimmy Eat World who would be different from fans of the Backstreet Boys.

Alas, they are not. Even with the widely different types of music performed by each band (and yes, I know BSB is more of a music group than a band - that’s not the point right now) the fans tend to act very similarly.  They are protective of their choice. They know all the ins and outs. They look down on numskulls who don’t know the “early” music performed at a concert and only sing along to the latest CD.

I’ve come across message boards, forums, fan depots and “meeting spots” for all three of the aforementioned musical talents. I’m telling you, when it all boils down to it, the fans are the same.

Radiohead fans will talk about Thom Yorke’s “cute red pants.” Jimmy Eat World fans will argue over who looks better: Jim vs Rick. Backstreet fans can probably tell you just how many tattoos AJ has.

And you know what? None of it actually matters.

None of it.

Not when we’re talking music, at least. Because who the fuck cares that Thom smiled more at that one set or Zach didn’t come talk to the fans milling around after the show or that Howie got married?

With all that said, I do have to admit a little something.

After the craziness that was I during the most intense years of being a Backstreet Fanatic, I never ever thought I’d fall back into fanaticism of a musical group ever again.

I was wrong.

Because Radiohead? They have me hooked.

No, I’ll never bother getting the nitty gritty on Jonny Greenwood’s personal life, something I did in my teens with Kevin Richardson. No, I’ll never give two fucks about what Thom wore on stage, something I did in the past with AJ. No, I’ll never hunt down the “correct” hotel, reserve a room and strategically place myself in the hotel bar in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ed, something I most certainly did with Backstreet.

Either way, I will be a loyal fan until the day I die.

Since learning how production, music writing, composition and all that jazz works, I’ve steadily gone down hill with my love for all things Backstreet. Sure, they’ll always hold a special place in my heart from all of the crazy memories.

But let’s face it. Backstreet is - by no means - Radiohead.

And that’s that.

Radiohead - Nude (live @ APW Festival 8-8-0

Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely (live @ APW Festival 8-8-0

Radiohead - Idioteque (live @ APW Festival 8-8-0

Uhm… I might’ve lost my shit during this song.

I’m pretty sure there’s no way on earth I could properly express to you how excited I am about the next two weeks.

Here’s why:

Radiohead

The Roots

Sia

Girl Talk

Metric

Chromeo

The John Butler Trio

G.L & Special Sauce

Tristan Prettyman

and finally…

The Backstreet Boys

I’ve never listened to this many different live acts in a two-week span IN MY LIFE and I haven’t even listed everyone I’m going to see! I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do with myself. Something akin to a kid going apeshit in a candy store.

Oh, and somewhere in September I’ll be in the audience for this show thanks to my super duper fabulous boyfriend:

The Daily Show

I’m really fucking difficult to deal with.

Don’t believe me? Just ask my mom.

I’ve got no clue when, why or how it started.

I do vividly remember throwing a HUGE tantrum when my best friend tried to hop the neighbor’s fence with me to go pick cherries for my birthday party in the 1st grade. I seriously flipped the hell out and damn near pushed him to the ground in an effort to do it all by myself.

Somewhere along the way, I also developed this lovely thing called abandonment issues. Yet again, I have no idea why it started but the fear of it cripples me to this day.

I have erected a wall that is thick and huge.

I don’t always know how to let people in. The newer you are in my life, the harder it is.

The two aforementioned observations are completely interlaced. I have a bad habit of assuming that everyone I care for or about will just disappear in to thin air one day.

::POOF::

Gone.

On the one hand, I seriously hate it. It causes difficulties when there aught not be any. On the other hand, I love it. It keeps me reasonable and detached from random people that have no real baring on me or my life.

To have found someone who is seemingly able to cope with my stand-offish behavior while I adjust to this new relationship is not only amazing but fucking fantastic.

I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I’m damn glad we found each other.

I doubt I’ll blog too often about the boyfriend, despite my habit of over sharing,  but I felt like saying  this much.

He’s awesome.

End of story.

It all started out innocently enough. My best friend, boyfriend, mom and I were playing a friendly game of Skip-Bo while partaking in drinking festivities when the call came.

Angelique had found her father on the floor upon her arrival home. He was neither moving nor breathing. There’s no telling how long he might’ve been in that state.

I’ve known Angelique, Andy (her dad) and Sylvia (her mom) for the better half of my life. 18 years, to be exact. They’re a part of the extended German/black-American family that I’ve grown to love, even with all the ups and downs that the 15 different sets of families have gone through.

While waiting on word on Andy’s condition, shots of Grappa were had, although I did not really bother partaking.

Something felt off all night long. What started out as a well intentioned drinking session turned into nursing my two beers over several hours and unable to take more than a sip of the Grappa.

I knew before my mother even said anything that Andy had died. She was blotchy, red and tear-streaked. Upon hearing her confirmation, the first thing I did was call my father with the news. I figured no one else would bother… and I was right.

Somehow, this didn’t sit well with my mother who knew instinctively when I grabbed the phone that it was him I was calling.

Between attempting to keep myself calm and collected, entertaining my guests and comforting my mother all hell broke loose. I don’t know who made the phone call but my mom and father somehow ended up on opposite ends of the phone line.

They were arguing, so I had to play the role of “bad cop” and blatantly end the conversation.

He’s my father - I have no real choice.

He’s her ex-husband - she shouldn’t continue maintaining such an unhealthy relationship.

In my attempt to keep my armor up as high as possible I have not shed a single tear in front of anybody. Behind closed doors, it’s been a different story.

I don’t know what emotions are running through me right now.

I don’t really even know what to say.

I doubt that half of this post came out even remotely legible.

Right now I’m numb.

Andy was like an uncle, my mother is a sobbing mess, my dad still picks fights when the timing is oh-so-perfect and I still can’t do jackshit about a goddamn thing.

My last post was written in such a way that made a non-comical situation quite funny. But here’s the thing: my mom makes a lot more sense with her freak out sessions about how many beers I’ve had than my dad does with his tequila shots and driving 100+ mph.

Sure, my mom can get annoying with it, but somewhere in the books it’s written that she’s allowed. She did push me through a friggin small hole to give me life. As far as I’m concerned, that guarantees her a lifetime of “passes” for being ultra sensitive.

What some of you know already is that my father is an alcoholic. In one of his drunken rages he beat the ever living shit out of my mother, the start of that occurring right in front of my eyes along with my brother’s

That memory is a great deal of fun, I’ll tell ya..

Oh, and by “fun” I mean razor sharp and uncomfortable and horrible even to this day.

Rehashing the details is futile. I’ve already blogged about it anyway.

The one thing that sticks out the most for me from last Saturday’s escapade is that my father needed to guzzle a beer then take a shot of tequila to hang out with me.

And honestly, that’s all I’ve really been able to focus on since it happened.

I’m emotionally drained… and that’s all I can really say about that.

I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that everybody’s mom and dad (or mom and mom/dad and dad/legal guardians) are two totally different ball parks. Growing up, if I wanted to watch “steamy” movies, I knew I could asd my dad and he wouldn’t even blink an eye, whereas my mom would have a shit fit.

Thanks to dad, I got to watch Purple Rain and Pretty Woman when I was no where near old enough to grasp any of it and probably shouldn’t have been exposed to either.

Nearly twenty years later, things haven’t much changed. Dad’s still all about pushing the envelope and mom still likes to play it super ultra safe.

Case in point…

Scene 1: It’s after work and I’m enjoying a beer right before I go pick up DMB for debaucheries including more beer and rounds of Skip-Bo or Uno. Yeah, we’re totally on the cutting edge of all things cool. Obviously.
Mom: Are you sure you’re okay to drive?
Me: Uhm.. yeah. Why?
Mom: Well, it’s just that you’ve been drinking.
Me: Mom, I’ve had a single beer and I’m going down the street.
Mom: I know, but I worry! I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.
Me: It.was.just.one.beer.
Mom: Okay! Okay! But are you sure you’re okay to drive?!
Me: ::deep sigh:: Bye mom.

Scene 2: My boyfriend and I are visiting my dad right before he moves into his new house. As soon as we set foot into his current home, Coronas are shoved into both of our hands. Within two minutes, we find out we’re going to visit this new house with him. He wants to show and tell. Not another minute passes before he’s offering shots of Patron (read: damn good tequila). We both decline, but he definitely indulges. Cut to twenty minutes later and he’s packing more Coronas for the trip because those thirty minutes at the new house would be completely intolerable without more alcohol. Obviously.
Dad: Hey kiddo, wanna drive the Mercedes back to the house?
Me: Uhm. Please and thank you.
[After driving for several minutes]
Dad: Drives nice, doesn’t it? This Benz sure does have some kick. Oh, and Maryland cops are cooler than Virginia cops so punch it.
Me: [Increasing my speed] You got it.
Dad: Punch it!!
Me: I’m already doing a hundred miles per hour (read: in a 55mph zone)!!
Dad: Punch it anyway.

And people wonder where I get my led foot.

I get in trouble for my mouth more often than not.

I just don’t bite my tongue well and I don’t really bother with a “filter.”

In the seventh grade, I was sitting in social studies when Mr. Schuch was giving a history lesson on World War II. In his ignorance, he continuously stated that the Germans did this, the Germans did that and so on and so forth.

I could feel my temper rising as he spoke.

Before I could even think twice about it, I interjected with, “it wasn’t the Germans, it was the Nazis!”

He didn’t quite enjoy that. To be frank, his face turned three shades of red and he damn near blew a gasket.

Either way, I was right and he was wrong.

There are a lot of terrible things that came from Hitler’s reign. I feel a special twinge of guilt every time I think about it. It’s a mixture of guilt and shame, quite frankly.

Yet, had I been alive? I would’ve been shipped off too, considering I am not white.

I said that to a Jewish co-worker of mine since she was bad-mouthing current Germany because of the Nazi era and it pissed me off to no end.

The shock in her face at my quip gave me a sense of pleasure I probably shouldn’t have felt. I mean, hello! Who was she talking to? A black chick.

Either way, it just sucks that to so many Americans, Germany is automatically associated to the Nazi party.

If you weren’t aware, it’s completely illegal to affiliate oneself with that party in Germany and it has been for decades.

While the KKK can still march through the streets of the USA with their hate-speech, it is far from legal to do such a thing in the streets of Germany.

From paying war repercussions (even today) to outlawing the bigotry, Germany has done so very much to get away from the Nazi stigma that I proudly let people know my roots.

I just hope that more people realize that the Nazi regime did a damn fine job of scaring the ever loving shit out its citizens to keep them “in line.” The death camps and horrific genocide didn’t occur until later in Hitler’s power-hungry-scheme. If you went against his party, you were shot, jailed or shipped off.

It was an era of scare-tactics and it worked.

I’ve heard people argue that the German citizens could have done more to stop him. To a point, I do agree. But on the other hand, the country went through a horrible depression in which people could barely feed their families. When a country - any country - is dealing with something like this, and someone comes along with answers and starts to build up the economy, it’s easy to see how Hitler was able to get any power at all. And of course, this all happened before he went totally off the deep end.

Couple that with his pension to kill off his competition and scare tactics towards his own people… and voila.

I know, it’s not really as simple as that. But in a nutshell, that’s what happened. While pointing fingers is something we naturally do as humans, it doesn’t always work.

Remember, at the beginning America didn’t want to have anything to do with it. By the time Hitler was doing the most atrocious of acts while in power, he’d done a damn good job of scaring everyone around him into submission.

It’s an ugly speck in Germany’s history, much like America’s hundreds of years of slavery.

Oh, hi there Blogosphere!

Some of you may have noticed my pension for bitching in the last few posts. I think I should probably stop while I’m ahead.

No, not stop blogging. Just bitching.

Y’see - I’ve done an impeccable job of people watching and calculating their behavior. I’m not always right, but for the most part I am.

Yesterday’s rant? That was the result of misery loving company.

Look.

I know that I’m not your run of the mill kind of person. I also realize that I don’t much bother with conformity, no matter how much it bugs people. Moreover, I KNOW that alcohol increases people’s loose lips. What was said about me wasn’t something outlandish, it was an opinion on a behavior that not everyone enjoys. This behavior doesn’t actually affect anyone else. It’s just a personal choice of mine.

I know.

I’m being vague.

Sometimes, being only semi-anonymous causes problems.

Anyway.

The point is - I blew my lid for a few minutes, calmed down, regrouped and thought everything out fully. The source of my information is going through some shit with the same folks and therefore attempting to assuage their own issues by having others join said person’s merry bandwagon of whinery.

Well, I’m not hopping on.

Not over this.

Again, details can’t be fully revealed and it’s silly that I’m blogging about it at all. Then again, this is my spot on the net and I can say what I want. Although, that doesn’t mean I need to hurt people’s feelings or air their dirty laundry.

In much more important news, September 7th marks the first day since April that I’ll have extra cash on hand to live a little. I am profoundly excited.

Bring on September.