We had waited outside for an hour when the great disappointment happened. I figured a let down was scheduled to come my way because the last couple days were spent floating on air. A few days before, I finally convinced the parentals to let me go see the band I had been wanting to see. So on Friday, the day of the show, my cohort and I arrived in Portland, where the show was, at around quarter to five.

We decided to grab a quick bite to eat before hand to fortify ourselves for the hour-long wait before doors opened in 30-degree weather. We looked around the street, where the line was already lengthening, and then we saw it. It was perfect. It was only a couple hundred feet away from our line. ‘It’ was tiny cafe. The cafe was decorated with large pieces of abstract artwork and overstuffed sofa, where you could sit to drink your mocha lattes or cappuccinos. It seemed like a great place until I peered up at the menu written overhead on a chalkboard. Nothing seemed appealing. Most dishes were made with natural and organic products for the artists who come in to drink coffee in the overstuffed sofas.

I finally settled on an old fashioned grilled cheese. Except, it was not your normal grilled cheese because it was on rye bread and cost $3.50. I sighed- a grilled cheese for that price? That was the price I paid for the convenience of being able to oversee the currently growing entrance line to the show. After shoving the overpriced but mediocre sandwich down my throat, my comrade and I hurried over to the line.

For the first thirty minutes or so, we amused ourselves by listening to other people’s conversations, keeping our minds off the cold, comforted by the fact that a few guys in front of us only had T-shirts on and we in our black fleece sweatshirts had to be warmer than they were. The time was nearing six and the line had only moved occasionally. Being the incredible height of 5’1, I could not tell if they were letting people in or if people were maybe dying off from frostbite.

I heard a spasm of screaming near the front of the line. I guessed the band left their bus. I tried to think of a reason people would need to scream. “Wow — look, a real live person in a band — let’s scream!” I envisioned the people thinking. Hearing those screams, a few people in front of me decided they were not taking chances and left to squeeze into the front of the line. I thought this was rude and that I would get in on my own merits and be honest about getting in.

So much for that because a few minutes later, the club’s manager came out and announced to everyone that the club was filled to its limits of two hundred and fifty people, so the rest of us should leave. “I wasn’t giving up that easily.”I thought. People could leave the place I reasoned to myself, though there were a good two hundred people between myself and the door. After twenty minutes, I figured it was time to give up the battle. My friend was turning a shade of pale blue and because I did not want to deal with trying to unfreeze her from her spot later, I figured that we should leave. I walked around the line and up around to the club’s entrance.

I did not see the people previously standing in front of us. I felt bitter that by cheating, they had gotten in to the show. I guess some things just are not meant to be. This article was meant to be a review of the show, but things did not pan out. What I can do is give a review of the band’s CD. Story Of The Year’s Page Avenue is incredible. It is currently on heavy rotation in my CD player. The lyrics have the depth that most CDs lack these days. The melodies that are combined with bouts of loud, raw energy create an incredible sound. Page Avenue is one CD that everyone should hear.