I didn't end up going to the Blanton. The line was so fucking long. It was more daunting than a Tyra Banks "give yourself your own Papsmear" special. It was more intimidating than an Art History professor asking about my feelings and looking at me like I'm a bipolar alien nympho. It was scarier than a leering, methmouth trucker in a deserted Whataburger bathroom (don't begrudge me my dramatic tangents, I am an arteeeest after all).
I ended up going to a fun Korean Karaoke place instead. It was one of the more amusing things I've seen lately. I refused to sing, because I have a karaokinferiority complex. I always try to imagine what I would look like up there: Bedraggled and waddling, squealing Pat Benatar and trying not to fall out of my shirt. I think I make too many jokes about drunken secretaries going crazy on Margarita Night Tuesdays. One day I shall wake up and discover that my name is Patty and I that I type bank statements for Wachovia. AGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH! And I wear dress skirts every day! AGGGH! And I have to don stockings in the summertime!!!!!! And I have a boyfriend named Ted who makes me trim his neck hair! And my co-worker Amy is having her baby shower today in a hotel lobby! And Ted thinks we should buy a vibrating massage chair from Brookstone! Agh. Ok, that last one was not so bad. I would need said chair if I was dating "Ted."
I think the problem is that I DO attempt to envision this. Others, I'm convinced, either do not wonder what they look like onstage, or simply do not give a shit. I am impressed with these people (there was a certain Transmedia prof. who gave the greatest rendition of "Kung-Fu Fighting" that I have ever seen. He is my new hero). I am going to work on giving shits, i.e. I no longer want to give them. It's a new shit-free day (Star Spangled Banner begins to play as I weep silently with shitless joy).