A coolness radar

One of my colleagues, Nick, happened to mention a couple months ago that he performs in an improv comedy group in the city. Instantly, my ears pricked up.

Improv comedy? My radar for coolness was instantly on high alert. 


Because that's now it works, for non-creative folks like me. For people who think in bullet points and spreadsheets. You don't develop your own coolness (because really, you can't), but rather a finely tuned radar for coolness in others, that you can then follow along in their glow.

"When are you next performing?!" I asked him.
Turned out, it was this Friday past.
"Can we come?"
"Of course".

And so we did. This Friday, Delta, I, Bobbis and Kate headed down to watch Nick and his friends perform in their improv comedy troupe. And laughed non-stop for the entire 60 minutes of their performance. What an incrediby, incredibly talented group of comedians, and we couldn't recommend them enough. If you life in NYC, check out Lead McEnroe, who perform at the Magnet Theater.  Great evening, great idea for a date, great laughs and great people.

A Mad Men party

The idea of a Mad Men party was disingenuously introduced into the conversation by me several months ago, when I happened to buy a new dress and I couldn't think of a more suitable occasion to wear it than a Mad Men party. And it wasn't like we were getting invited to Mad Men parties all over the place, so it fell on Delta and me to host one ourselves.

So Delta and I sent out an email to the gang, inviting them for a Mad Men night last weekend. Have you ever thrown a Mad Men party? Certainly a somewhat more complicated endeavour than we'd originally anticipated, especially with Delta and I being novices at the nuanced complexities of cocktails (who knew where to get aromatic bitters and simple syrup?!).

But it was also undeniably exciting. Google, that all-knowing wizard, pointed us to Mad Men cocktail sites all over the interweb. The morning before the party was filled with martini glasses and muddlers and mint and olives and cherries. And perhaps we even had a practice cocktail (or two) in the afternoon before the guests arrived. We weren't quite sure about hairstyles, but discovered there wasn't quite any problem that a bit of Brylcreem couldn't solve.

We'd asked our friends to dress to theme, but I'm not quite sure what we expected. A bit of effort towards suits and dresses, maybe? A few references to our favourite characters?  But how we had underestimated our posse.

They had taken the theme to heart, and had leapt into the spirit of the evening with both feet. In the week running up to our party, they had engaged in a furious amount of googling and website-link-exchanging, to drum up ideas and costumes.


Sometime during the middle of the party, I paused and removed myself to glance around and take in the scene. I was bursting with pride and adoration at our friends for embracing the spirit with such enthusiasm. Couldn't have asked for anything more to make the party feel just perfect. 


And also, while I'm thinking of it, a big thank you to our neighbours who have borne with us for all these years, and politely refrained from complaining about our inane parties. Who could ask for more. 

A July 4th celebration come early

Yesterday afternoon, Doobie and I were wandering aimlessly through Central Park, when we found ourselves passing by the SummerStage rotunda. We could hear a singer in there, warming up for her evening performance. The husky, sensuous voice was characteristic. “That sounds like Norah Jones,” I mentioned casually to Doobie.

Immediately, Doobie, who has how become the world’s most avid googler ever since she bought her first iPhone, started googling SummerStage singers. And wouldn’t you know it. I was right! Norah Jones was scheduled to perform at SummerStage later that evening! I’ve never, ever been able to identify a singer or group before. It’s just not in my repertoire of expertise, such as that is. Someone could play the Rolling Stones to me, even one of their greatest hits, and if I had to guess the singers, I’d still probably say, “ummm, Beatles? Bon Jovi?”. Yes, that’s how horrifically musically disinclined I am.

So when I pulled the Norah Jones guess out of my hat, I have to say, I was more than just a little bit chuffed. I might have even affected a strut for a few minutes there.

“I really wanted to go to see Norah Jones,” Doobie said wistfully, “but the tickets were all sold out when I looked.” So we listened to her warming up for a while instead, our own private concert before the real thing.

And then strolled onwards, enjoying the warm summer’s day in the park. 

Shortly, I’d all but forgotten about Norah Jones, and we were about to head back homewards, when a tall man approached us. “Hey. You want tickets for Norah Jones tonight?” he asked. Whaddaya know. A scalper. Doobie and I looked at each other. We hadn’t really planned on going to the concert, but now here were the tickets, being thrown in our faces!

“How much are they for?”

“How much you willing to pay?”

I’m terrible at such kind of negotiations and always end up overpaying because I’m too embarrassed to low-ball someone, so Doobie deftly took the lead in the conversation. She can play hardball when she gets going. Mere seconds later we’d agreed to two tickets for $35 each.

“It’s even less than the face value of the ticket!” The scalper told us, pointing to the face value listed as $50. “But I’ll give this to you ladies, because of her beautiful smile,” he accepted, indicating Doobie.

Right then and there we should have known there was something dodgy in the air. If the scalper himself wasn’t enough, at least the below face-value price, and the distracting flattery should have given us a hint. But the truth is, Doobie and I were so beside ourselves with excitement about the tickets, (and though we hate to admit it, equally elated by the compliment), that we didn’t allow ourselves to consider that the tickets might actually be fake. I mean, that happens to other people all the time. But to us??! No way. Besides, they looked similar to the tickets everyone else in line was brandishing, so they must be real.

So we skipped over to the line and took our spots excitedly at the end.  They had already started allowing people in, so the line, though freakishly long, actually moved along fairly quickly. And before we knew it we’d reached the ticket checkers already.

“Tickets, please.”
We handed over our tickets, wide grins of anticipation plastered across our faces.  He held them below the scanner. But instead of the normal beeeeeep, it made a  strange staccato sound, as though it was angry. Beep-beep-BEEP-beep-beeeep!! Immediately he called his supervisor, and we knew we were done for.

“These tickets are fake,” the man told us sternly. “Where’d you get them from?”

“Craig’s list,” Doobie jumped in.  That girl truly can be glib when the situation calls for it. “Why what’s wrong with them?”

“They’re fake tickets,” the official said. “I’m afraid we can’t let you in with these.”

I threw in a “what?!” of feigned surprise, just for good measure, lest he think we’re the type of girls who would buy tickets from scalpers round the corner.

“I’m sorry girls, you’re going to leave, I can’t let you in with these,” he repeated firmly. 

There was a long line of impatient entrants behind us, so Doobie and I knew we couldn’t hold up the queue any longer. We were crushed.  Couldn’t believe we’d fallen for that age-old fake ticket ploy. And that beautiful smile line. Ha!

But just as we were about to ask him where we should exit from, there was another “Beep-beep-BEEP-beep-beeeep!!” at a neighbouring ticket counter, and the supervisor headed off to address the same issue with another entrant. Doobie and I glanced around, wondering what we were supposed to do. The ticket checkers were busy checking other customers. The supervisor was busy dealing with the new person he had found. Just for that moment, everyone had forgotten about us.

And there Doobie and I were standing, past the ticket check counters, actually inside the arena. And nobody was looking for tickets anymore. And nobody was paying attention to us anymore. And gradually, just standing there, we’d started blending into the crowd heading to the stage.

We stood there for a few moments, when another concert official came up to us. We thought she’d ask us to leave, but instead she said, “you can’t just stand there, you have to keep moving. The stage is that way,” and she guided us towards the stage. And before we knew it, there we were, drifting with the rest of the crowds towards the bleachers.

I still don’t think it had sunk in yet, when we bought our drinks, and grabbed our seats. We kept expecting someone to come by and say, “Hey you! With the fake tickets! You have to leave.” But nobody did. Nobody cared. I don’t know whether that supervisor who checked our tickets had decided to deliberately turn a blind eye, or whether he got truly distracted. But whatever it was, I thank him kindly.

And so there we were. Despite not having planned to attend the concert in the first place. Despite stumbling upon it purely by coincidence. Despite being duped into fake tickets. Somehow, fortuitously, there we were.

Needless to say, it was a great evening. We watched the sun set over the crowds, as Norah Jones’ strong and melodic voice carried her distinctive music through the evening air.