But I WAS In A Band!

Before I tell you about what I was going to tell you about, I have to ask you a question, dear reader(s): Do you have any shredded cheese in your pants? Think carefully before you answer, because you could be facing seven years in prison. Now I have enough trouble remembering how to read under item due to the fact that my brain kept coming up with variations on "Arrest that man! He's got cheese in his pants!" which it insisted I say out loud, to myself, in my office. Because nothing says 'worthy investment' like hearing your new hiree talking to herself about knickers full of dairy products on a Wednesday morning. I'm 88% sure my bosses already think I'm crazy, given the frequency and depth of the conversations I have with myself on a pretty regular basis (read: every fifteen minutes). I don't really need them to think that I smuggle my lunch in in my trousers as well. So thanks, New York Times, for once again a) improving my day just that much more and b) making me mild to moderately offensive to be around. That's worth the subscription right there.

Now on to the main point. Recently I had another an experience that gave me occasion to wonder: exactly how uncool am I? Let's back that thang up a little. (Side Note: I met Kerri Walsh once--for those of you not familiar with the cutthroat world of ladies' beach volleyball, she is not the one whose thang, is being put in reverse, but the one looking on in bewilderment as our former president smacks that ass--and completely failed to recognize her. Now maybe that isn't so embarrassing for a normal person under normal circumstances, but I failed to recognize her at the Olympics where she is like a god, which for someone who keeps the Olympic flame burning at all times deep in my heart, is completely unacceptable. It's like not recognizing your boy Ghandi at a hunger strike. This chick is about eighteen feet tall, possess the physique of an amazon warrior maiden, and was being trailed by a camera crew at the time. Yet genius that I am, I could not put A(thens) and B(eijing) together and get consecutive Olympic gold medals. Instead I just stood there awkwardly  pretending to learn about how Han dynasty emperors liked their concubines and hoping not to bring dishonor on my ancestors, while everyone I was touring with freaked out over the fact that we were in the Forbidden City with a olympicelebrity and her entourage. Someone in our group, who apparently was equally socially leotarded, finally decided to ask her 'how the Olympics were going.' Crickets. Because not only had we just asked an Olympic athlete the athletic equivalent of 'wazzup', we had also basically admitted that we were both creepy enough to be celebrity stalkers AND lazydumb enough to not even know who our celebrity targets were. Luckily in the course of her answering our hard-hitting question--I don't remember what she said, but it was something like 'um, great! I'm having a really good time.' Very classy, and not at  all  acknowledging  of the fact that we had just simultaneously accosted and insulted her--someone did actually figured out who she was. And redemption was at hand! All we had to do was ask a clever and insightful question about beach volleyball and she would totally forget the fact that we couldn't remember who she was or why she mattered. Except this meant that we would've had to have known something, anything insightful about beach volleyball. Remember that this is the same group of people who led with 'so how are the Olympics going for you.' We did not know one single thing. Eight simultaneous brain farts. She started to walk away and got about ten feet from us when someone blurted out 'DO YOU USE HAND SIGNALS??' Yes, dear reader(s), given the opportunity to ask one of Team USA's best athletes a single  question face-to-face, that was the one we chose. 'Do you use hand signals.' That was the best we could come up with. Dishonor on my whole family.) [EDIT: Did you know the March Hare is up for a Lifetime Achievement Award in the "World's Longest Side Notes" category?? Vote for her HERE.]

That right there should be enough evidence in support of the argument that I am not cool. If I were cool, Kerri and I would have matching friendship bracelets right now, not a vaguely uncomfortable feeling and total and utter shame, respectively. This isn't a subjective thing, it's just true. March Hare -> Cool. HOWEVER this is NOT to be confused with the fact that I am co-captain of Team Awesome. Just because something is awesome, does not make it cool, and visa versa. This is awesome, but not cool.  This thing is cool, but has sadly proved to be not awesome. For all you visual learners out there, here is a Venn diagram illustrating this principle:

 In case you were wondering, Venn diagrams are cool and awesome.

Anyanyanyways, the point is that usually when I am the last to hear about something cool, I don't sweat it. I'm not supposed to know. It's not for my kind. So when I heard about the following scheme, my initial reaction was, well duh, of course YOU wouldn't have done that. Bitch, please. But my second initial reaction (my twonitial reaction) was whaHUH? Hold up, girlfriend. That ain't right. Lemme a-splain. My fourteen year old brother has a friend, we'll call him Slicko. Slicko is always coming up with fast schemes and easy money, and he is a pro at getting all his buddies on board. He is that guy who knows a guy who knows a guy's brother that will totally get us into the Jonas Brothers concert because he's their managers cousin and all we have to do is pay $30 up front and we're in. A couple weeks ago, Slicko says to my bro, 'hey, wanna make some money? I'm having this jamming party and all you need to do is sell these tickets for me at $30 a pop. I'll give you 10%.'

So now my bro is excited because he stands to make a hefty $3 profit on these tickets, and what just-recently-teenaged boy doesn't need some cash in his pocket? What with all the belts and small earrings a guys gotta rock these days just to fit in, he needs all the extra green he can get his oversized hands and feet on. Press pause. When I was in high school--getting my uncool on, obvi--I never once bought a ticket to a party from a classmate of mine for any amount of money. Tickets were for school  "charity" dances with official names like "The Picayune Jollies" where you paid way more than $30 to benefit some obscure cause and then huddled nervously together in tight circles for several hours at a time trying to act attractive in your semi-formalest finery. Tickets were for drama club productions of 'A Streetcar Named Desire' where Stanley Kowalski is played by a girl named Liza because none of the guys from your brother school came out for the auditions. Tickets were not for parties. You just heard about someone's parents being out of town for the weekend and showed up on said weekend ready to throw on some Remix to Ignition, drink one quarter of a shot of Nikolai, tell everyone that you are soo drunk, and get on down, all the while hoping that mom and dad don't come back from the Hamptons early. If money changed hands it was either in the form of bringing something  (Doritoes, beer) or paying someone else to bring something (Doritoes, beer). Okay, press play.

At this point I thought to myself, okay maybe this isn't the way we used to do things back in MY day, but it could work, right? I mean, if you make everyone pay up front you avoid that inevitable party foul of someone forgetting to bring something, or not having any cash on them, or bringing their entire Facebook friend network, none of whom you know,  all of whom act really psyched to be there  and tell you how great you are until it's time to settle up at which point you realize that they all left ten minutes ago conveniently forgetting to pay for any of their drinks and now you're stuck with $70 extra on your card. It could happen. So I'm kind of grooving a little bit on this members-only idea. Where is this fine fete, I ask. 'Slicko is renting this studio in midtown. He does it all the time. He's really mature for his age.' WHAT? Really? One of your high school freshman buddies has convinced a New York City landlord to hand over his studio to a bunch of hormone-ridden judgment-impaired teenagers? I may not have been around the block that many times, but I have certainly been around the block THAT many times, and this sounds definitely dodgy. I am soundly assured, however, that it's all taken care of and I just don't know anything, so I decide to move on from this obvious minor snag, and ask how Slicko makes sure there are no, ahem, law enforcement complications. I mean I took basic math and I know teenagers + no parents + party = underaged shenanigans. Don't worry, bro says, there's not going to be any drinks there. Well clearly there's going to be drinks there, I say, it isn't a high school party until someone's brother buys you a six pack and tells the cashier it's for his dad! No no, he tells me, there's no drinks and no food at this party at all.

HOLD UP. If I am going to be enticed to go anywhere on a Saturday night there better be, at the very least, the promise of something there that I can imbibe/chow down or WOE BE UNTO YOU. I am not putting on my hussygussiest just so that we can stand around and stare at each other.  No one is that good looking. So what does this ticket buy you? 'Well Slicko says it's a really big studio. He's selling 700 tickets. You get to go to the party. And there's no adults there, so it's way more fun.' So basically what you're telling me is that I have to buy a ticket for the privilege of hanging out with a bunch of other people who are equally as gullible as I am? No thank you sir, I can do that on my own time for free (and I do). No no, he tells me, you don't get it. This is so cool, everyone does it, it's gonna be like the best party of the year, you have to buy a ticket.

And here's where you got on. What all this boils down to is that  while I have no problem whatsoever owning to the fact that I do not have a seat reserved for me at the cheerleaders' table in the school cafeteria (or "caf"), I did not realize how far down I had fallen on the scale of 1 to Coolzville until this moment. Apparently I have sunk so low that I can't even appreciate the value of seeing and being seen by a giant empty room full of awkward, sober teenagers. It's like I'm not even on the map. My question is, did everyone else know about this except for me? Were there all kinds of secret studio loft parties when I was in high school that were going on right under my lame nose? I feel like there weren't but given my obvious disability how would I even know?? HOW UNCOOL AM I??? Help me dear reader(s)! You're my only hope!