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Day Two didn’t get off to quite the right start, but no bother. Sarah, Ollie and I arrived at Port Authority to discover that the last emo-bus had departed 45 minutes earlier. We piled into a car service and worked on our emo-gameplan. I had one man on the brain – Bret. Fucking. Michaels. Rock of Love gave me a new reason for being for the past two years and the fact that he was gonna be there live, in person, giving me something to believe in… it was just too much for me and my French maid costume to handle. Our car pulled up conveniently beside the Say Anything bus, so we were quickly reunited with Parker. And his mom. Who is awesome. More on this in a second. We chitchatted with the Thrice boys for a bit, but I was eager to get to the Red Bull tent and get my sauce on. I tugged at everyone’s arms and got the team to proceed towards the drinks… when it happened. We were weaving our way between two busses when one of the boys – I can’t remember if it was a Say Anything-er or a Thrice-r – but one of the boys stopped in his tracks and screamed, “BRANDI C!!!!!!” Oh. My. God. I have stood within ten feet of Brandi C. My Bamboozle experience is suddenly justified. And then Parker’s mom chimed in. “That’s just TOO scary.” HA. So we finally got to the Red Bull tent where we ran into Gabe Saporta. He was eager to test his 90s lyrics knowledge, and I quickly administered the test. He did… OK. Leslie Simon, author of “Everybody Hurts,” was a tremendous help, as was Mayor Juliani, photographer and daytripper to the stars. Gabe knows a lot about Counting Crows, not so much about Green Day. He also prefers Depeche Mode to NIN, for those of you keeping track. I ordered my first beverage lodged between two members of Phantom Planet and let it be known that they are very, very good-looking. I of course forgot that they were playing, so I can’t tell you a thing about how they sounded. Though I imagine if you’re reading this, you might have been there, and might be able to tell me if they are still playing that song about girlfriends and black Jettas. Oh wait, that’s IMA Robot. Whatever. The goofing around with Gabe took longer than expected (insert inappropriate joke here) and once again, I missed the one set I wanted to see (in this case, the set being Mr. Michaels). Parker refused to let me cry into my Red Bull (such a good surrogate boyfriend!) and instead motivated us to return stageside to watch Thrice. Thrice are so awesome, but I will say – watching a band from the side of the stage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, for us old people (that’s anyone in the 25+ tickbox) it’s great, because it’s not as loud and you’re not as jostled, but the sound is pretty warped and it’s hard to get the full effect of a band when you’re left watching their tushes (though I’d say some of my company didn’t mind, hubba hubba). Nevertheless, the Thrice set was breathtaking, with a tremendous crowd and loads of surfers. Good times. After pausing briefly to watch Coheed and Cambria’s hair in motion (this after an equally brief pitstop chez Starting Line), our group found the elusive Bubble stage in time to catch the Photo Atlas. I love the Photo Atlas. I think they sound like the Datsuns (if the Datsuns were from Denver instead of New Zealand), though lead singer Alan claims to not know who the Kiwis are. He also claims to not know who Sophia Loren is, so I am beginning to question his integrity. Regardless, he writes some awesome speed rock disco jams, so I forgive. Once the Photo Atlas was over, Ollie, Parker and I considered a go at catering, only to discover the doors had been shut. It was somewhere around this time that I caught sight of the Blackout boys, but refrained from introducing myself because I was in a faux French maid costume and didn’t need that tainting our first meeting (which turned out to be fine, as I got the chance to hang with them at the Knitting Factory the very next day). The Blackout is a fun new band from Wales with whom I’ve got about a dozen mutual friends. If anyone reading this is dating a questionable character, I highly recommend their single “It’s High Tide Baby” if only to write its lyrics in your diary. Dejected and hungry, our triumvirate returned to the Say Anything bus so that Parker could pack up his gear (and we could leave the site before the crush). While loitering, we reunited with team Thrice and administered the Reccenter 90s lyrics embarrassment. You guys will see this footage eventually, but lemme say this – the next time you see Riley or Eddie Breckenridge, tell them your favorite band is Smashmouth. Just sayin.