I want you to know that I love your band, and have loved your band for a very long time, longer than you’ve been a part of it. I want to start with praise, because what I have to say after this might sound a bit mean, but… well, you deserve it.
See, the thing is, I think there’s enough room in our small neighborhood that we can share it. I understand that sometimes you have to go out early on a Monday morning during a holiday weekend, but maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe someone sent you out to get milk, or you woke up and realized you were out of smokes, or you were racing home to get inside your apartment before your girlfriend realized you hadn’t come home that night. I’m not even going to pretend I know anything about you, other than you have a sister, one who used to email me back when you were just joining the band to tell me how cool you and your band were. She would tell me about your secret shows, the ones at the Viper Room, and she often tried to find a way that I would get to meet you.
I didn’t think it would happen on the corner of Eagle Rock and Colorado, and I certainly didn’t think it would happen when you tried to run over me with your faux-British Mini Cooper while you were openly cursing at me.
Dude. I had the right of way. Not only was I a pedestrian, but I had an illuminated walking man that said it was my turn to cross the street, so you were supposed to wait just a few more precious seconds before taking that right-hand turn.
How slow was I going, really? Enough to merit that cursing and then fake-out by speeding around me like a jackass, like I was the one who was going to make the next album come out in 2009 instead of tomorrow? You want to know why I was walking so slowly? Because I woke up at six in the morning to run ten miles. That’s right, mister, I had been up for hours before you even jumped into the Coop, so forgive me if I was walking just a bit more gingerly on my way to a hard-earned breakfast. I’d already covered every mile of Eagle Rock before you’d even brushed your teeth.
That’s why I didn’t feel like sprinting across Colorado so you could make it to the Coffee Table .06 seconds faster than you would have if I didn’t exist.
Do you know how much money I’ve spent on Weezer? I paid for at least one of those tires on your Austin Powers-mobile. In fact, this morning when I was running? I was listening to Weezer! And I even had a little moment where I thought again how happy I was that this band was around, and how much joy the songs give me (even the sad ones), and even though I was exhausted and covered in sweat, I still gave a little thank you to the universe for having a band in it called Weezer.
And then the replacement bassist from Weezer almost ran my ass over in a moment of assholery. I’m such a good fan that I can already detach this from my love of the band, and you cannot tarnish my love for all things Rivers Cuomo. You cannot do it, guy who needs to be nicer to cute girls who clearly love your band. One glance at me in my skirt and geek shirt, with my little Chinese slippers and my hair in some kind of half-hearted ponytail – you know the odds are I own at least one of your albums, but if you had slammed into me and my iPod had flown out of my fake-vintage messenger bag, you would have seen no less than 50 Weezer songs on that machine.
So, slow down! You live in a town filled with your fans. We know who you are.
And, fine. Maybe I was walking too slowly for your patience level. Maybe I should have shown you the respect you deserve (even though I didn’t know it was you until we looked each other in the eye and you made some kind of face that was a mix of “Gah!” and “Bitch!” and then you gunned your car and made the tires screech as they swerved around me, trying to get me to jump and squeal), and hustled my ass across the street as quickly as possible. I mean, I don’t want to do anything that would hinder a single second of recording time. And maybe Rivers was in the backseat, saw who I was, and said, “There’s that girl who’s been stalking me since 1995. Please run her over.” I’d even understand that.
But I was just a nice girl one foot from the curb trying to have a nice morning in Eagle Rock. I don’t understand why you had to try to scare me with your toy car. And thanks for ruining the Mini Cooper for me, too. I’d been thinking about getting one for about a year now. You just made me associate Mini Coopers with impatient, pissy drivers – an association that used to be exclusively for Jeeps.
I’m over it, by the way, so I’m not going to sit around stewing, wishing for an apology. That’s how much I love your band. If Thom Yorke pushed me in a crowded subway and said, “Why are you hindering my genius, freak-child?!” I’d probably feel the same way. I guess that’s not the healthiest way to be a fan, but that’s the kind of geek girl I am.
Next time, please hit me with the Mini Cooper, because then I could walk around like Rivers did with the cane and the cast (which seemed to help inspire a really great album), and then I could sue your ass and get my own Mini Cooper without those gay-ass stripes.
Yeah, I called your car gay. What are you gonna do about it?
See you at Swork, rockstar.