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Authors: Charles Mcdowell
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confines of my bedroom. Only problem with that was the confines of my bedroom weren’t exactly safe anymore. I knew the girls above me would no doubt be loud as hell with their “sisters from different misters” spending the night while consuming numerous bottles of “Pinot Greege.” Then I thought, hey, if one of them mentions me, that would be pretty cool. But soon I got to thinking that if they didn’t mention me, or even worse, did mention me but said something negative, it would set me back a solid week emotionally. So that left me only one possibility.…
3. Hang out with Pat and a few of his friends whom I’d never met before. And I was fine with that. If there’s one thing you can say about Pat, it’s that the guy knows how to have a good time. He lets everyone do their own thing. He’s not strict or limiting.
“The rule is simple: Absolutely no talking while Gaga is singing.” Pat said this to all of us with a look in his eye that I’ve never quite seen before. A look in his eye that said, “It appears that I’m talking to everybody right now, but I’m really just talking to you , CharlieMcDowell.” I may have even gulped. And before long, the Lady Gaga concert DVD was delicately placed into our player and my living room was as quiet as a library packed with mutes. A library that, for some strange reason, blared Lady Gaga.
I found myself in the middle of what used to be my spacious L-shaped couch. There were a few other guys I’d never met before, overpopulating my living room, enjoying “Born This Way” with the thousands of other “Little Monsters” attending the actual concert playing on my TV. Pat and his friends took this concert seriously. Needless to say, they weren’t thrilled when I held a lighter in the air and swayed back and forth. I felt like reminding Pat that he wasn’t exactly watching Death of a Salesman . But I guess there are just certain men out there who don’t have a sense of humor when it comes to Gaga. Finally, after Lady Gaga’s fifth encore, the concert ended. Or so I thought.… It turned out that my good friend Pat had an encore of his own.
Pat stood up and addressed the crowd, some of whom were still riding their Gaga high with no signs of coming down. “Okay, so I have an amazing surprise, something even better than the concert we all just experienced.” (You don’t watch a Gaga concert, you experience it.) One of his friends wondered what could possibly be better than the concert. I remember thinking, Anything?
“Well, since I work at the most amazing company in the world, Disney, I’m happy to announce”—his speech was painfully rehearsed—“that due to an office raffle that yours truly won, all of us are going to be spending the weekend … at …” The suspense wasn’t the thing killing me. “Disneyland!” It was the payoff.
The room permeated with positive energy and genuine excitement; it was like Richard Simmons getting a blow job on ecstasy. “First Gaga, now Disney,” one of them exclaimed. Then theyproceeded to stand up and high-five one another in an incredibly masculine way that seemed to contradict their previous exclamation.
“Charlie, did you not hear me? We are spending the weekend at Disneyland!” Pat reiterated.
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“Well, then why aren’t you getting all excited with us?” Pat asked.
Pat was right. They were excited. If ten minutes ago my living room had turned into a library, it had now morphed into the reopening of Studio 54. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not going to be able to make it,” I said out loud. Everyone went quiet. They looked at me with such disappointment. Studio 54 closed its doors again that night, and this time it was my fault.
“But why?” They were begging for an answer. Even though they were glaring at me with their perfectly plucked raised eyebrows, I still didn’t flinch. I didn’t have the strength to clarify; it was all much too painful for me. It still is,
3. Hang out with Pat and a few of his friends whom I’d never met before. And I was fine with that. If there’s one thing you can say about Pat, it’s that the guy knows how to have a good time. He lets everyone do their own thing. He’s not strict or limiting.
“The rule is simple: Absolutely no talking while Gaga is singing.” Pat said this to all of us with a look in his eye that I’ve never quite seen before. A look in his eye that said, “It appears that I’m talking to everybody right now, but I’m really just talking to you , CharlieMcDowell.” I may have even gulped. And before long, the Lady Gaga concert DVD was delicately placed into our player and my living room was as quiet as a library packed with mutes. A library that, for some strange reason, blared Lady Gaga.
I found myself in the middle of what used to be my spacious L-shaped couch. There were a few other guys I’d never met before, overpopulating my living room, enjoying “Born This Way” with the thousands of other “Little Monsters” attending the actual concert playing on my TV. Pat and his friends took this concert seriously. Needless to say, they weren’t thrilled when I held a lighter in the air and swayed back and forth. I felt like reminding Pat that he wasn’t exactly watching Death of a Salesman . But I guess there are just certain men out there who don’t have a sense of humor when it comes to Gaga. Finally, after Lady Gaga’s fifth encore, the concert ended. Or so I thought.… It turned out that my good friend Pat had an encore of his own.
Pat stood up and addressed the crowd, some of whom were still riding their Gaga high with no signs of coming down. “Okay, so I have an amazing surprise, something even better than the concert we all just experienced.” (You don’t watch a Gaga concert, you experience it.) One of his friends wondered what could possibly be better than the concert. I remember thinking, Anything?
“Well, since I work at the most amazing company in the world, Disney, I’m happy to announce”—his speech was painfully rehearsed—“that due to an office raffle that yours truly won, all of us are going to be spending the weekend … at …” The suspense wasn’t the thing killing me. “Disneyland!” It was the payoff.
The room permeated with positive energy and genuine excitement; it was like Richard Simmons getting a blow job on ecstasy. “First Gaga, now Disney,” one of them exclaimed. Then theyproceeded to stand up and high-five one another in an incredibly masculine way that seemed to contradict their previous exclamation.
“Charlie, did you not hear me? We are spending the weekend at Disneyland!” Pat reiterated.
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“Well, then why aren’t you getting all excited with us?” Pat asked.
Pat was right. They were excited. If ten minutes ago my living room had turned into a library, it had now morphed into the reopening of Studio 54. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not going to be able to make it,” I said out loud. Everyone went quiet. They looked at me with such disappointment. Studio 54 closed its doors again that night, and this time it was my fault.
“But why?” They were begging for an answer. Even though they were glaring at me with their perfectly plucked raised eyebrows, I still didn’t flinch. I didn’t have the strength to clarify; it was all much too painful for me. It still is,
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