The Baxter

I went to Heeb Magazine's American Schmidol last night at the Bowery Ballroom with E and M. It was being held in celebration of Purim, and was basically an American Idol-style karaoke challenge being judged by Michael Ian Black, Michael Showalter, and the other guy from Stella.

Because I was sick and therefore unable to drink and therefore super intimidated by the amount of people at the show, I didn't sign up to sing. I spent the entire time wishing I was feeling better, because singing at The Bowery would have been a fantasy come true. Oh well. Maybe next year.

The guys from Stella were super funny, and the karaoke was refreshing in that it wasn't all good. This is a rarity in NYC, where everyone is a star. There were some really good singers, but there were some terribly atrocious singers as well. Unlike Super Mecca Karaoke Smackdown, there was no gong or person dressed up as a Whammy to stop the bad performances.

I had to leave early as I thought that my left ear was going to explode. I don't know if there's an ear infection brewing or if the karaoke just felt like daggers in my already sick head. E stayed behind and said that I didn't miss much.

Anyway.

Onto more important things, namely Michael Showalter. I apparently have (and probably always will have) a crush on him after seeing The Baxter. I was standing far back in the audience, but I swear that he was staring at me from the stage. He was probably thinking "That girl is Punjabi, not Jewish" or "That girl looks ill" or "That girl's glasses are too big for her face," but in my mind I was certain that he fancied me.

I was trying to decide if I should wave or smile or do something just to verify that he was, indeed, staring at me.

But then I thought "Why would I do that? So what if he is? Who cares?"

Or worse, "What if he is?"

If I'd confirmed that he was looking at me, and he responded to whatever I did, I'd be forced to stay all night despite sickness and boyfriend so that I could talk to him after the show.

But why? Why would I do that?

I decided not to smile at him, because there would be no point.

It got me to thinking, though, about couples who make fantasy arrangements with their signficant others. For example, I would allow D to sleep with Michelle Williams because that would be awesome. I imagine D would allow me to sleep with Clive Owen or George Clooney if the opportunity presented itself.

This is all null and void if you live in NYC, where these sorts of things are actually possible. Let's say, for instance, that I did stay last night and that I talked to Michael Showalter and that I got drunk etc. etc. This is not allowed.

I guess when you're fantasizing about these sorts of things you just imagine that the celebrity shows up in your significant other's room and says "I would like to sleep with you now" and that's it. Your signficiant other is powerless because Michelle Williams is in his room, as are you, because George Clooney has just appeared in your bed! Who wouldn't sleep with him?

But in the real world, in NYC, it wouldn't be like that. You'd talk and you'd make the decision to do it and it would ruin everything.