Earlier this year, I forgot my sister’s birthday. Before you start thinking I’m a horrible person, I need to mention one thing. She is my twin sister.

For the three of you wondering if we are identical twins, make this world a better place and jump in front of a train.

I felt bad, even worse than I did when I forgot her birthday last year. She is a big fan of the Goo Goo Dolls, so I decided I would sacrifice myself and take her to the concert on Friday for a late birthday celebration.

Personally, I’d rather listen to the bird torture sounds they play around campus than most of today’s hit music. That includes the Goo Goo Dolls. But I haven’t been to a whole lot of “real” concerts in my life (for some reason people tell me that “Weird Al” concerts don’t count), so I went to this thing with an open mind, hoping to learn something, especially something I could write about here.

Every time I go to a concert, no matter how weird or terrible the guys are on stage, I always get a little bit jealous. I think this is because, deep down, I’ve always wanted to be a rock star. Unfortunately, my career never quite took off.

I started early, however. Even before I entered elementary school, my best friend Mark and I were thrust into the spotlight, performing concerts with our crude guitars, commonly referred to as “tennis rackets.”

We sounded incredible and always received a standing ovation from the crowd (his mom) until that fateful day when Mark’s Michael Jackson tape got jammed in his Fisher Price boom-box.

Many people would have given up their dreams of stardom after a career letdown like that. But not me. I kept that dream alive, and finally, 13 years after the incident, I started preparing for my comeback tour.

I had just graduated from high school when I resurrected my career, but for some reason, Mark’s mom had lost interest in my tennis racket playing ability. So I picked up a real guitar. I even taught myself how to play.

That’s probably why I still suck at it. But after watching the three bands play at Hilton Friday night, I realized that becoming a rock star requires more than just learning the right chords. It requires playing the right chords while acting insane.

All the guitarists at the concert spent the whole time hopping around the stage like crazed rabbits, almost as if — and I find this as hard to believe as you do — they were on some sort of drugs.

Despite the fact that I didn’t like the music, I survived. I do think, however, that even people who like the kind of music played at the concert would not have been too disappointed had the second band of the evening, the New One Hit Wonders, not been able to make it due to an unfortunate bus accident.

Perhaps I’m just jealous that someone paid them to play songs that weren’t even theirs when they didn’t even know the words. And the only song they played that was theirs, they played twice.

I guess I just don’t think it’s fair. If I started using the same paragraphs more than once in a column, I’d probably be fired.

But the concert helped me realize that being a rock star isn’t my calling. Earlier in the week, my other dream of becoming a rap star was crushed by Tone Loc. During his concert on Wednesday night he held a rap contest where he hand-selected the contestants from the crowd.

Despite my enthusiasm, he didn’t pick me. Surprisingly, I didn’t have the look or attitude he was searching for.

Having the right attitude and appearance is the primary requirement to being a rapper because the actual rapping itself doesn’t really require a whole lot of talent.

Mr. Loc proved this quite eloquently when he spent half of the concert chanting:

[WARNING! The following quote has been edited for content to appease the many college students who haven’t yet been exposed to vulgar language.]

“BLEEP yeah! BLEEP mother-BLEEPing yeah!” I tried to count the number of times he chanted this, but I quickly ran out of fingers and toes.

I guess I just don’t think it’s fair. If I started using the same paragraphs more than once in a column, I’d probably be fired.

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Peter Borchers is a sophomore in advertising from Bloomington, Minn. He really did forget his twin sister’s birthday. Twice.