Meangya

[vienna waits]

I'm supposed to find an essay that moves me in some sort of way for school. I really have no idea where to start. Plus the ones that I am finding are so sophisticated and about stuff that I can't relate to at all (politics and other such things). Does anybody know of a place with good essays that aren't impossible to understand about topics that teenagers would care about? Pleeeeease.

[Rockapella722]

I have a relaxed essay that I wrote myself on a similar subject for speech last year... "your autobiography with a touch of humor". I dunno if you can use it, but, a favorite music group moves most people...

~~~~~

I don't deny the fact that I'm a bandwagon jumper. I discover everything ten minutes too late. Too late for obscure coolness. Too early for trendiness.

Katie in the Middle: The Story of My Dorky Life.

When do I stumble (Actually, it's more re-stumble, but I'm getting ahead of myself.) across Rockapella? When they release 25 oh-so-hip and retardedly expensive Japanese import albums? When they're experimenting and finding their musical nitches? When they're young and quirky and hungry and irreverent and have funny hair? No sir, says I.

I find them when they're teetering on the brink of mega-success. Post-Live In Concert album. Pre-Billboard-smash Smilin' album. Bottom line: My timing sucks. But at least I made it in time for dessert, even if I can't lay claim to one of those "I loved them even before they went Adult Contemporary..." stories.

Guess how I found them? No really. Guess. How about I tell you? One word. Napster. Go ahead. Yell. Scream. I'll wait until you're done. Tell me that I'm stealing the bus fare out of Scott Leonard's pocket. (Now that, my friends, would be a challenge, not to mention a fun way to spend an afternoon.) Tell me that I'm robbing hard working musicians of their hard-earned royalties. Tell me that I'm immoral and that I'm earning my bootlegging illegal self six years in Purgatory for my sins. But guess what? The cursed program earned Rockapella at least one new fan. One who ran out to an actual music store and bought the actual CDs about 12 seconds after she hit "download." So yeah. I'm going to hell. And the road leading there is paved with shiny new copies of Don't Tell Me You Do and Live In Concert.

It was a random pang of nostalgia. Because after all, where does one get an actual copy of the "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" theme song after all these years? Darned if I know. So I turned to Lucifer and Napster and found it, quick like a bunny.

Me: Instantly 7 years old again. Instantly remembering what a seriously quirked-out, well-conceived show that was. Instantly remembering how cool and liberated and brunette, and frankly, kind of a feminist Carmen Sandiego was in those days and how badly I wanted to be her. (Heck, I still want to be her.) Instantly remembering Sean and his bizzaro dreadlocks and how weird it was that they let them sing the lyric, "I don't give a damn 'cause I'm stone dead already" on PBS. At 4:00 in the afternoon, no less. Scott the Dying Informant. Barry dressed as a woman. The loot! The alley. The vests. By God, it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen on television. Period. If it were on today, I'd watch it. I'd tape it. I'd rewind the Scott parts and play them over and over and over.

But the music. Ah, the music. I didn't know what a cappella was. I just knew that it was fun. Jump-around-and-be-a-hyper-seven-year-old fun. As assuredly as an entire bottle of Mountain Dew would have done back then, it sent me bouncing off the walls. I didn't care why. All I knew was that Rockapella was the best and that Gaborone was the capital of Botswana.

Fast forward a few years. Thanksgiving break. The Folgers Commercial. I had a minor fit, really. The only one I really recognized was Scott. I'm thinking, "That sort of remotely resembles the Artists Formerly Known as Rockapella, but where is Braid Boy? And if Braid Boy left, why are there still too many of them?" I swear, mathematically challenged person that I am, I just kept counting them, thinking that I was counting someone twice. Or maybe that Sean had radical cosmetic surgery or something.

Five. Five. OK. So there's five of them now. Go figure. Commercial ends. Katie moves on. Gorges herself on Thanksgiving dinner. Forgets about Rockapella.

But it's the nostalgia that got me after all these years. One download, when something's good, inevitably leads to two, leads to six, leads to the nearby music store, leads to me getting absolutely drag-me-out-of-bed-in-the-morning and lay-me-down-at-night obsessed with a little album called 2 and all of the dreamy, unquestionably grown up love songs contained therein. Love songs. Love songs that aren't written by Lou Pearlman. Love songs that make love sound kind of appealing, and freakishly enough, kind of real. Love songs that float out of the speakers. And after a year of Britneys and Boys who presume to sing but can't, it was nice to hear Men who actually can.

Then, a week later, comes foray number 2 up my street. at strange hours of the night and wee hours of the morning for the Live In Concert DVD and that's it. Game over. Hooked. Addicted. Tie me off, Scott, and put it in my veins. I need it to live. Check me into The Betty and call it a night. I love Rockapella.

So now I'm all conflicted again. Never seen a concert. But these are the exciting days of the relationship when everything's new and you look upon the world with new eyes or something. Right? Right! I'm optimistic about my Rockapella fandom. And time heals all. Even memories of one crazy fan running at the bandwagon at full speed and aggressively hurtling herself onto the back of it.

[¤I Love Clay Aiken¤]

Hehe. The title drew me in. Meangya, I saved ALL my essays from high school. Doubt theyd be 'moving' though. Cant you write your own and say you were moved?