Faux Pas

Last night at Graydon Carter’s playground, The Waverly Inn, inches from tuna tartare, feet from Anne Hathaway and neck-deep in swirling literati:

Me: Wasn’t he your Pushcart boyfriend?

Her: Pushcart? No, no, he won the Pen/Faulkner.

Me (half mock embarrassment/half real): I cannot believe I just mistook the Pushcart for the Pen/Faulkner! How gauche! I hope no one from Vanity Fair heard!

Francois: They did. But just for that joke, we won’t kick you out.

Catching up with the mentor and finally, finally getting back on track with my novel. With bad jokes like these, there’s no choice but to pretend to be a writer again…right?

And on our way out, the paparazzi took our picture…must have been the slowest night this year.

A star! Ici!

“You are a star!” The pretty customs girl clutches my passport as tightly as a winning lottery ticket. “Ici!” She shoves it in her partner’s face, at once their eyes bright, a flurry of French between them.

“En-cray-da-bull!”

“Zup-hair koole!”

It is seven in the morning and my mullet is at its apex of ridiculousness. I am also wearing three outfits at once, unable to fit the nearly eighty six dresses I bought into a borrowed suitcase. Perhaps they think I am the lost Olsen. A third, slightly taller, far more homeless-looking one.

“Ah, no. Non, mademoiselle. Je suis une…um…” My accent rolling the words like marbles. “No, I’m not.”

“Oui!” She can’t, she won’t, believe it.

I sign a napkin, imagining the scenario later.

To her friend or confused mother, shaking their heads, incredulously agreeing that stars just aren’t what they used to be...famous for not being famous now, on top of everything else.

Do You Like Robot Rock?

This is what the definition-of-hot-for-euro Frenchman asked me, and I answered sure, no, wait, yes of course, maybe invigorated by the gleam off his gold-plated canine, or that I was misplaced in Brooklyn for the night, and Guns’n’Bombs was kicking the second set and everyone was so young, or Danish, sometimes you just can’t tell, and then he asked me did I like to kiss on the mouth hard like he did (his English was not quite as good as he would have liked)?

Friday means another social experiment with my girlfriend so we danced for six hours in the dark, a rotating circle of people falling in and out with the beats and us snapping pictures in the bathroom, our hands slipping, the disposable camera clattering on the floor. The refrain, go hard or go home, so we looked ridiculous, poseurs, posturing in sweatbands, onesies, short dresses, neon, and it was the apex of our Brooklyn attractiveness, and we kidded later that we could not go out again for fear of ever falling short, never matching the pheromonal frenzy and the unce unce unce.

And when I was approached by the most ambiguously beautiful creature I had ever seen, I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl, what age, what sexual preference, what ethnicity, and it turned out he was a boy and his name was Jonas and he was interested in girls, possible in me if only I would say the right thing, and he could tell my outfit had come from American Apparel and that was good and he narrowed his eyes and tossed his long, straight, black hair from the horizontal sweatband that kept it off of his God-like brow and he leaned in and his hands were so elegant and they touched my neck without my permission and he asked, did I work there, and I laughed because I thought it was a joke and said no, did he, and he did not smile at all and said yes, he was an AA model and also some sort of director of corporate marketing and he looked me up and down and said it was a shame that I didn’t do what he did and then he walked away.

Still, I would say we ended the evening on a high note. This is where I met my nineteen year old among others, this is where our photos were snapped for Guns’n’Bombs personal use, we hoped at least, this is where resumes would be judged better if they were capped with mullets and this is what will provide stories where I sort of hang my head for the rest of the month.

O.P.D.

Last night I saw The National and Arcade Fire at the United Palace Theatre (essentially this enormous gilded mosque where few tiers provide a great view of the performance). The show was a dazzling display of lights, skewered video, jumping Canadians and frenzied drumming. It looked like the lead singer Win was about to bust an aneurysm on-stage as he kicked instruments, flipped his bangs and shouted at the mike. It was Saturday on a Monday night. It was great. They were, by all intents and purposes, astounding. The entire experience was.

Except.

Well.

You know…that thing. The thing which we do not speak of.

OPD. Other People’s Dancing.

And the pain it can cause for some.

It’s a weird phenomenon. Everyone looks so normal, so pacified at the start of the show. People shuffle politely, wait in line for beers, calmly locate their seats while clutching their stubs. You’re excited. They’re excited. Together you have something in common as you’re all here to share in the communal youth experience that is a good band in a great setting where the music is too loud and yet it doesn’t hurt your ears and won’t for another four years. If you’re lucky.

And then the lights go down, the speakers kick in and the quiet ones start to stir. Something starts squirming inside of them. Why is it always the quiet ones? The ones that look like they work at Blockbuster and it’s their one night off. It’s always some absurdly skinny, short or heavy drip with frizzy hair and Coke-bottle glasses who starts freaking out in a spastic display of the worst dancing in the world. They pump their fists not-to-the-music, they scream out the words during the slow parts, they hit people to the left and the right of them with flailing limbs, they jump and fall and twist like some bad rendition of an uncle at a wedding. And you don’t want to say anything, because hey, it’s not like you can dance, or like you’re so cool. In fact, you’re just a huge poseur hipster dork who is extremely skinny, short or heavy yourself and you’ve got frizzy hair and suspect vision but damn, at least you’ve got self-denial. You can limit your movements to a respectable head bob and two step. Your insecurity and fear of public humiliation saves you. And if you slip up momentarily, you don’t have to look at yourself and you can immediately right it. These other kids though, forget it. You have to look at them. They’re the ones with the slightly better seats and are blocking the view with their seizures. They’re the ones killing it. Killing the night you looked forward to for the last month.

So you say to yourself, you aren’t going to be bothered. You try to watch the stage, try to pretend things were the same as they were mere hours ago when you sped along on your way to the concert with your iPod at full volume, sure that the band was singing just for you. Of course you knew this wasn’t true, and if it were it would be incredibly clichéd, but clichéd perfection. And in that it felt personal and special and you thought maybe seeing the band live would also feel the same way. You’d meet people like yourself and you’d all sort of mosh happily together as a group of new friends.

But that’s the thing about concerts. Whatever benefit of seeing the band in the flesh can be completely off put by seeing the other kids who are into it (or even worse, 40somethings with bald spots, as last night proved beyond a reasonable doubt). And sometimes it’s unavoidable*.

Personally, I believe that it’s a hazard that has to be tolerated. Not everyone shares this philosophy. Last night, I partook in minimal dancing, cause I can’t dance, and enjoyed myself because that’s what I paid for. Unfortunately, the boy I was with couldn’t contain his annoyance. I’d look over at him to comment on how fantastic a transition was and he’d be staring at one girl to our left who looked like she needed medical attention. I tried to make a joke of it (“Just ignore it!”) and he sighed (“I’m trying but I can’t!”). Finally, between songs, he couldn’t help himself any longer.

Him: “I have to say something.”

Me: “No you don’t!”

Him: “Look, someone needs to tell her. If that were me, I’d want to be told.”

Me: “I really don’t think that’s true.”

Him (in a loud plea aimed at the row below us): “Please stop dancing like that!”

Me: “Shhhhh!”

Him: “Please! Please stop dancing like that! Please!”

Girl: “Whooo! I love you Arcade Fire! Whooo!” (insert flailing limbs)

Him: “Please, this isn’t Rusted Root! For the love of God!”

Suffice it to say she didn’t notice (in fact if anything, she was only re-energized). The rest of the set was amazing. We went home and laughed. Until we reminded ourselves we probably wouldn't have wanted to see us letting loose at our first concerts.

What were they again? Mine (G Love) and his (Type O Negative).

Wow. Okay, no more laughing at OPD. Ever again.

*Ever go to a concert with a person you’ve never seen dance before? It’s agita-inducing. It’s always such a horrifying litmus test for the friendship or relationship. Bad is the overly excited dancing that harms innocent bystanders. Even worse is the kid that doesn’t even move his head the entire time.