signLast night was Magnet’s last show in the US before heading back to Norway. I’m sure the show was great. However, I didn’t see it. (Abbe, please fill me in? Pretty please.)

I’m not 21; I’m the incredibly stupid age of 20. I was told that this wouldn’t be a problem. Except it was, because The Living Room won’t let you in if you’re under 21…unless you’re accompanied by an parent, according to the website. I suppose if I dragged my mum out from New Jersey then things would’ve been A-OK? I didn’t really get that idea from the way the guy at the dorm with the card reader-majiggy (which I’ve never seen before in my life) refused to let me in. There was no way. No back entrance. No window I could climb through in a sneaky fashion. I hadn’t mastered walking through walls, or how to use The Force, and my four friends and I certainly couldn’t take this guy down, although we thought about it.

I don’t know what would’ve happened to the venue if they let me and my 19 and 20 year old friends in. Police raid? Visit by Satan? The whales would be un-saved? We don’t drink or do anything very offensive, unless you’re me, in which case you just exist. Oh. Well. Is it just the alcohol thing? Restaurants would serve me wine, if I wanted it.

I had secured five tickets to the sold out show of which only two were used by Abbe and Janet. I felt horrible for dragging Sarah and Jen out, as they certainly had better things to do. Hell, I had “better” things to do (you know, school work), although nothing worth missing Magnet over. As of now (about 7 AM), I’ve been up for 24 hours straight and if it’s worth mentioning, I’m always uncaffeinated. Tuesday was long. Wednesday morning was long (although I had the good fortune of watching the sun rise over the Brooklyn Bridge, so maybe it wasn’t that bad). But Tuesday was longer because for the entire day I was thinking about the Magnet show. Actually, I’ve been thinking about it for a few months.

Oh well; what can you do? Nothing. I mean, nothing legal, as hit-the-carder-and-run idea did come up in conversation. After efforts to get in proved futile, I stopped thinking I was even going to see the show and just roamed around with Jen after giving my camera to Janet in the case that she may be able to use it.

I love Jen; she’s the only friend I’ve known since before popping out of the womb. I wanted her to distract me, and she did by filling me in on the past 6 months of her life in England and Thailand and showing me the rooftop of her apartment from where I could look down on Ludlow Street and give a short, angry glance at The Living Room. I couldn’t help but think of the minutes passing by with every moment I was …well, not there.

Janet called me about five to 11PM when the show was over so she could give me my camera with a bit of digitally-rendered Magnet. I was fairly alright up until then. I mean, I can deal. Yeah. I’m sad, but there are worse things in life, like death, torture and unsaved whales. But as much as I hate crying (I don’t remember the last time I did it), I had to do it. For about 5 seconds. I guess sometimes it feels alright, but I still hate it.

not blurryJanet was waiting outside. I asked how the show was and she said crowded (because it’s a small place)…and with fans. Whoa, fans! Yes, that makes sense, but as someone who has seen him perform six times, not one of those shows was both crowded and full of fans. Granted, the outdoor concert had a lot of space to fill (a field) and it was kind of raining, but…anyway. I bet I would’ve enjoyed that environment. Someday.

And then…fuck, more crying? What is this? Stop! Make it stop. Come on. Oh. Damn. Crying is messy and embarrassing, besides increasing the snot production of my nasal passages. I guess it would’ve been more embarrassing by myself and not with the insanely gentle and nice Janet by my side, who handed me a tissue. I didn’t want to leave. I missed the show, but…but. To be honest, I had something to give to Even and David (David being “the other guy” that tours with Even and handles the electronic-y stuff), so I really couldn’t just leave.

This could be a very long story; I’m wondering how to cut it short. How many details to include? Or leave out? Well. Even saw me with my head buried in my hands, which I wasn’t really planning for (I think he saw me through the clear door of the …door thing outside…you know what I mean), although I certainly wasn’t going to approach him in that manner. Hello, I MISSED YOUR SHOW. I WAS DEEMED TOO YOUNG TO ENTER “THE ROOM OF LIVING”. I guess that means I’m not worthy of living.

Anyway, I obviously didn’t look too happy. I mean, I was happy of course to see Even, but I was probably more depressed than I realized at the time since my brain works at “goldfish” level (ie, it’s really slow). Sometimes you don’t know how sad you are until your body tells you by unleashing torrents of salty water out of your eye sockets. It’s odd. I don’t know why every time I see a Magnet show, I just anticipate the next one more than the last. The first time I saw Even perform, I went to Brownies thinking that I wouldn’t get in (age limit problems once more, although that was me being 16 at an “18+” show). When I did get in, I was beyond happy. I guess it’s natural that if the opposite were to happen, I’d be beyond depressed. Just never had to experience it before.

“Wait here, I’m gonna get you a present.”

…Huh? No you’re not. What are you doing? No! I don’t remember what I actually said, but it was probably something like, “Wuuuh?” I’m an eloquent creature.

“Just wait here, I’ll be back in a bit.”

Well, I certainly wouldn’t run at that point. I was still confused. I mean. Huh? He never has presents. I have presents, which I give after witnessing awesome performances. Or almost witnessing awesome performances.

He came back and plopped down his guitar case. My first thought was, “This isn’t a very good joke.”

“You can have my guitar.”

“…No, I can’t.”

“It’s yours! Take it.”

“…huuuh? But…I can’t!…it’s yours…uhhhh…” (Channeling eloquence here.)

“I’m not going to bring it back anyway.” I took the guitar and leaned it against the brick wall.

... ...UHHHH.... EVEN, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Why are you nice beyond human comprehension? Why did you give me your guitar? Even if you weren’t going to bring it back, there’s no way you intended on giving it to me when you bought it. It wasn’t like, “Ohhh I’m gonna get this guitar and temporarily use it and give it to Robyn when I’m done with it.” I know that wasn’t what you were thinking. What were you thinking? I mean. WHA…

…I mean, thank you. Dammit. This guitar is going to bother me. I got this guitar because I cried? That’s wrong! That’s just wrong. I got this guitar because my mum didn’t procreate a few months earlier? Or was Even going to give it to someone at the end of the show anyway? Like he’d just toss it in the audience—”Whoever catches it gets to keep it!”—and crush a few skulls in the process because the guitar + case is damn heavy?

Anyway, since I’ve had the past 8 or so odd hours to think about it, I…don’t really know what to think. Awkward. I’m just going to wonder what he would’ve done with the guitar otherwise. Of course, another part of me is just like “uhhiwuduiew3e90udsm keyboardsmash#213143$%NFMoo.” Even…words cannot express.

I could’ve written this in a much more endearing manner, but then it would get too personal. Just remember that Even is …I can’t even think of the words. Well. That’s my story. Unless you want a Part II.