When I was in junior high, my mom coerced me to join the Armenian youth group and I did so willingly on account of the fact that I had been going to school with the same 20 kids since first grade and was hoping to meet some new people, particularly cute boys. The first blow was the realization that the only teenage Armenian boys taller than me were my cousins. The second blow was the realization that most of the kids I met were total jerks, the sort who insisted upon speaking in Armenian even when they knew full well (and perhaps because) that I couldn't understand them and then made snide comments in their mother tongue, which, of course, consisted of the only words I could understand. For some reason, probably boredom, I persisted with the whole youth group thing and ended up on the volleyball team. I'm not quite sure how that happened because height cannot make up for a lack of coordination. Anyhow, I ended up on the team with my sister, who actually is athletic, and we headed up to Fresno for the annual sports tournament.
On our first night there, I was hanging around the pool in my Depeche Mode t-shirt and black jeans when my friend, we'll call her Laura, spotted a guy in a bad-ass Cure t-shirt listening to his Walkman. We started whispering. Well, whispering for Armenians, which is to say that we were probably speaking in a hoarse yet audible tone that would be considered normal by the standards of most.
"Oh my God, he's totally cute."
"Dude, he's so tall."
"And he's blonde."
"I bet he's not Armenian."
"You should go talk to him."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
I did what fourteen-year-old Catholic school girls do best. I put on some red lipstick, walked towards him and tossed my hair. I probably would have hiked my skirt too, if I were wearing one. Hey, I was two weeks shy of junior high graduation and everything I knew about dating came from Sweet Valley High and my best friend's mom's romance books.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he replied.
"I'm Liz."
"Dean."
"What are you listening to?"
"The Beautiful South."
"Who's that?"
"Here, you should listen."
He handed me his headphones and this song played.

The Beautiful South "Song for Whoever"

"Wow, this is amazing."
That wasn't even a pathetic attempt at flirtation on my part. The song did, in fact, blow my mind.
We started chatting. He was from the Valley, not Armenian, just up here with a friend of his who was on the basketball team. He worked at a record store and was an art major in college.
He asked me where I went to school. I gave him the name of the high school I was set to attend that fall. I also told him that I was a junior and that I was seventeen.
I hated the fact that I was lying because the more we talked, the more I genuinely liked this guy. But, really, I had to lie. There was no way around it. Here I was stuck in a sea of short, immature dorks and I found this guy who is tall, good looking, gentlemanly and a Cure fan. Was I supposed to pass that up just because he was 20 and I could get him 20? Well, even at my fake age of 17 I was jailbait, but, y'know, 17 is the preferred age of rock stars the world over, so why not, right?
I kept up the lie for the whole night. We roamed around the parking lot for hours talking about books and art and that Morrissey concert the following weekend that everyone and their grandma was going to see. In the meantime, Laura and this bitchy sometimes-friend of ours who I will refer to as Ani, ran into my parents hanging out with all of the other parents. When they asked where I was, the girls replied, "Oh, she went off with this guy, Dean. He's in college."
I was sold out.
By 2:00 a.m., my dad was walking around the hotel looking for me and I was standing right outside this guy's door. He asks me if I want to go in and I said no and he leaned over like he was going to kiss me goodnight when I felt a hand tugging on the sleeve of my jacket.
Oh shit, I thought. I'm dead and I didn't even get to kiss the guy.
My dad yelled at me as I followed him throughout the hallway across the hotel back to the suite. Despite my slouched posture and mounds of hair covering my face, I saw my friends, with my cousins and seemingly 500 other people, laughing in the corner.
According to my cousins, the story remained something of a legend at the old Armenian youth group. I wouldn't know. I stopped going shortly after I ran into Dean at a dance the following year and my dad actually walked inside to get Laura and I, since we missed curfew, probably forever ruining the illusion that I could have been anything more than a high school freshman.
I never saw Dean again, but The Beautiful South have maintained status in my music collection. "Song for Whoever" is off Welcome to the Beautiful South as well as Carry on Up the Charts: The Best of the Beautiful South. Both albums are in print, so I suggest buying one, the other or both.

Two years ago, The Beautiful South released a covers album that I believe is only available as an import. It's called Gold Diggas Head Nodders & Pholk Songs and contains these two gems.

The Beautiful South "Don't Fear the Reaper"

The Beautiful South "Ciao!"

For the record, I humbly submit that "Don't Fear the Reaper" is one of the best songs ever written. Now that I think about it, "Ciao!" is pretty high up on the list as well. The original is from Lush and features Jarvis Cocker on vocals.