a. e. smith’s official website

Ok, so I admit it: I was one of the thousands of fans adoring David Archuleta in concert last night.  (I was not, however, one of the fans freezing outside of the secured parking area for a hope of seeing him after the concert – there’s a difference.)  A family I work with gave me free tickets and, although I rarely watch American Idol, was familiar enough with David Archuleta’s work to know it would be a good time.  And it was.

For starters, the people.  My favorite remains the punk kid with the mohawk, tight jeans and platform shoes.  Awesome.  There were people from age 7 to 75.  My friend and I worried that we, two normally hip gals, might be out of place and uncool.  Any fears soon passed when the teens and tweens looked at us with envy as they sat down beside their earplug-wearing parents.  Some groups of girlfriends even wore coordinated outfits (I’m sure it helped David’s performance).  To the 4 girls who had synchronized cell phone movements during the songs, thank you.  It was one of many highlights that evening.

Never have I heard such loud, high-pitched screaming.  I can only imagine what it was like for the Beatles back in the day.  The number of times I had to plug my ears probably exceeds my number of years in life.  But oh was it fun.

We danced and screamed with the best of them.   Who knew that one teen concert could be so liberating?

David showed up in sneakers, jeans, a white t-shirt and a gray, sleeveless zip-up hoodie — and I loved him for it.  He repeatedly thanked the crowd — and I loved him for it.  He even sang a number in Spanish — I don’t speak Spanish, but I loved him for it nevertheless.

As I sat there looking around I realized that I’ve come a long way since 15 — and that I really loved him for.

I live on Sesame Street.  No brownstones with inviting front steps, but yes, sometimes I feel like I’m living on Sesame Street.

There’s the local grocer down the street who carries the best produce and knows me by name.  He even makes recommendations and let’s me sample whatever is delicious.  His name is Vito and I like it when he calls the vegetables by their Italian names.

The post office is a hop, skip and jump away.  I wave at our friendly postal delivery person whenever I see him.

My husband and I walk to a nearby park where people always seem to be gathering, playing tennis or baseball, and all in all, enjoying life.  There’s no construction yard with kids jumping on metal grates, but still, there are kids being kids all around .

In one direction is a local Indian food market and in another direction is a terrific Asian grocery store that also has a little cafeteria at the front featuring delicious, inexpensive lunches.  I like going there for cheap spices and huh-factor browsing.

Recently we even discovered a nice neighborhood restaurant with good food, reasonable prices and great atmosphere.  There’s even a nearby candy shop featuring hand-dipped chocolates — a true rarity (trust me, I’m an expert).

Go much farther than that and I’m reminded that I’m in the middle of a faceless, strip-mall, fast-food, big-box suburb that is now synonymous with Anywhereville, USA.  Communities no longer have character.

That’s why, more and more, I’m focusing on the small glimmers of originality in this mass-produced maze…even if it means dealing with Oscar the Grouch.