Chatterbox Chipmunks, I’ve been lied to. There’s no way I’m turning 30 in April. I can’t remember much from those early years, so for all I know, life began in 1986 and not 1982 like my birth certificate would lead you to believe.
That’s right. I’m not a day over 25.
My taste in accessories (slap bracelets) and hair styles (side ponies) suggests not a nostalgic fondness for the styles of my youth, but rather a hipster-esque desire to embrace ‘vintage’ trends.
I’m the baby of the family.
Of my friends.
I’m the young one!!
Er, meet my new friend, 21-year-old Christie:
Remember Christie? We met two weeks ago cavorting outside the “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying” stage door, exactly the way smart, funny, adorable girls in their early twenties meet.
Christie is as sweet as a teeny, tiny baby chipmunk and attends a crazy-good school to study architecture. We met up this past Thursday in lower Manhattan to see my fellow 25(ish)-year-old, Charlene Kaye, perform at the Rockwood Music Hall.
I wore a $4 white thermal shirt from Old Navy. You know, ’cause us young kids just don’t give a shiz*. The guy who carded me even said I was “a baby.” Now, I won’t be greedy. I’ll settle for 25.
That was the highlight of the night.
Charlene Kaye was brilliant, and managed to fill the venue, despite playing a 7pm set on a Thursday night. She performed for a mere 45 minutes, which is my only complaint. Charlene’s voice is pure and unique – both haunting and comforting. She can incorporate hip-hop beats into her music just as easily as power ballad piano riffs.
We said hello to Charlene after her set (there were high-fives exchanged…they have become cool and hip, so naturally I was included), and she asked if she’d see us again. Sure, Charlene, we’ll be at your CD release party in March – if
I’ve finished my term paper I’m not too tired after work to make the commute.
Here’s a taste of my favorite song of Charlene’s, the title track of her soon-to-debut album, Animal Love:
*Until said young kid arrives home and realizes her tanning lotion has rubbed off on the sleeves.
What age do you want to relive so badly it makes you cry into your orange-stained sleeves?