Baba O’Riley

I have lived through many, many awkward moments. When I was in college, I was out at 3 a.m. – after several drinks – having pizza with a girlfriend, when I recognized one of the nearby patrons as my former boyfriend’s roommate who, on at least two occasions, walked in on me completely naked, doing, um, embarrassing things. And do you think I could just let it lie there? Nope. Totally caused a scene. Went on for an extremely long, loud time about how the last time we saw each other, he probably “…saw my ass first, right? HAHAHAHA.” Except no one was laughing, and everyone just looked horrified. The veins were popping out of my neck with the strain of the awkwardness, as my friend whispered in a completely terrified tone, “oh my God, you are making a scene. For the love of God, stop.”

I am good at scenes.

Of course, there have been many incidents of physical discomfort and stumbling moments such as the time I fell into the stingray pool at Sea World. I was feeding them as part of some ridiculous exhibit thing when I slipped on the algae on the ground and tumbled headfirst into the water, displacing about a frillion stingrays, their slippery little bodies squirming away from me as fast as possible while throngs of SeaWorld employees rushed to their rescue. Not my rescue, mind you. The stingrays’ rescue. I spent the rest of the day soaking wet, covered in green schmutz and the red veil of embarrassment.

But all of those bits of humiliation cannot possibly compare to the wild and flailing and…desperate discomfort I felt tonight while watching Rockstar: Supernova. BABA O’RILEY. Dear God, Ryan. I’ve put away the Ba Tempte pickles. I no longer have dreams of sharing a large plate of kugel with apricots and beef knish at Zaftig’s deli in Brookline. I mean, I wouldn’t throw him out of my bed…errr, car, or anything, but my God. The second the words “Baba O’Riley” were out of his mouth, I died. I knew. It’s the song of death (does he not remember Dana?) and MY GOD, it was bad. I like Baba O’Riley very much, in fact, but not for him. Or anyone, actually, except for The Who.

I watched the entire song from behind a pillow on our couch screeching, “PLEASE. STOP THIS. LET IT END. OH MY GOD, LET IT END.” and yet: it didn’t end. It went on and on and on and by the time he crawled up on the speakers, I was almost in tears, pleading with Adam to hit fast-forward on the Tivo, or push pause or change the channel or something to save us from the trainwreck unfolding before our eyes. He cruelly refused. In fact, he rubbed it in, screaming back, “YOUR BOY IS GOING DOWN IN FLAMES AND I AM GOING TO WATCH. NOW PLEASE STOP.”

Strangely, I felt so bad for Ryan. There was screaming and screeching and crawling. WHAT WAS WITH THE CRAWLING UP THE SPEAKERS? I forgave him last night when he humped the piano awkwardly (which was at stingray-levels of humiliation), but climbing up a set of speakers and jumping around like – oh hell, I don’t know what it was like – just killed me. It reminded me of one of those bare-assed baboons that move around ungracefully and try to act cool while they pick their ass, forgetting that their asses are bright, flaming red and hello, we can all see them. And their asses. And it’s not good, not good at all. Did anyone else catch Gilby’s horrified face?

The truth? I’m slightly more endeared to him, but on a platonic level now. Platonic. Listen to me. Like a) it matters and b) anyone cares, because there are like, three of you who watch this damn show. And I’m sure he’s disappointed at the change of heart from some random married woman in the south, and will save the pickle and knish entry until the day he dies.

I’m awkward, and I get awkward people, and DUDE, if you asked me to be a rockstar, I would totally get so nervous that I’d fumble around like an idiot and probably do something like fart on stage, then fall backwards from the powerful kickback and stench. This would, of course, take out an entire set of speakers along with Jason Newstead and his incredibly annoying, nerdy tone. (Who knew a bass player from Metallica could be so…GOD HELP US, I don’t know? Something powerfully geeky and not in a good way.) And then I would try to play it cool by going out while loudly spouting about my solo career which would be, mercifully, entirely played out sitting down at a piano where I could maintain some level of hotness.

Which is basically what Ryan did, sans farting. Moving around the stage? NOT HIS THING, unless you count flailing limbs and more uncomfortable moments than you can shake a stick at as remotely attractive. And thus, along with the departure of poor, awkward, geeky-hot Ryan, ends my brief career as a Rockstar: Supernova groupie and blogger. I will continue to watch, but the magic is gone on every possible level.

15 comments August 30th, 2006