Well. I can’t wait to see the Google hits I get off of that title.
Thursday I received an email from Chris telling me that he was coming to Philly on Saturday and asked if I would like to hang out. If you recall, the last time I saw Chris he was in DC and confined to a wheelchair thanks to an insurgent bomb and President Bush’s thinking that foreign policy is like a game of RISK. So now that Chris was coming to Philly (now with 100% more walking power!) I was anxious to see him not pale and in pain in a military bed. We made good use of his now functioning legs and hips and walked all over the damn city. We walked from 30th street station all the way to Rittenhouse Square, looped around and went back to University City. We ate too much sushi, visited approximately 17 frillion bookstores, got caught in a rainstorm, and contemplated crashing Drexel’s Alumni Weekend festivities.
The bad thing about spending the day with Chris like this, was that come 5pm I felt exhausted and looked like hell. This was a problem because that night I had tickets to see Michael Showalter.
A little back story: Michael Showalter is a comedian, writer, actor, and director. You’ve probably seen him and not realized it. Back in the day he was a member of The State, he acted in and co-wrote
Wet Hot American Summer, he’s one third of the comedy group
Stella, and most recently he wrote, directed and starred in
The Baxter, a very sweet romantic comedy that’s a nice break from his normal absurdist humor. So yeah, I’ve been a fan for awhile. I have been following his career since 1994, which makes me feel both old and incredibly pathetic.
When I heard that Showalter was coming to The Trocadero I was excited because the Troc is a smaller venue, and often times after shows the performers head up to the balcony bar and you have a chance to meet them. In my head, I daydreamed that I would buy Showalter a drink, compliment him on
The Baxter and proceed to be so utterly charming and witty that he would think I was super cool. I would be suave and interesting and intelligent and we would have a great conversation. And then maybe some makeouts.
OK, you know what? Shut up. I like the funny men.
Actually, I was just hoping to meet him and communicate effectively that he’s been making me laugh for years and that I really enjoy all of his work.
And then some makeouts.
But after a day walking in the city and being rained on my cute hair that I had curled that morning was limp and straw-like and my eye makeup was all smudged. I looked and felt like ick.
I met up with Renée for dinner at the Brew Pub and then we headed to the Troc. We were standing in line, chatting with the random boy in front of us, talking about, I think, how I was going to be the
Girl in Gold Boots for Halloween, when Michael Showalter walked by. And at the moment, everything froze. Micheal Showalter was walking down the line giving high fives and stopping to take pictures with fans. And my brain said, "Wurg."
Renée nudged me "Go catch up with him."
"Um."
"Go run up to him, tackle him and start humping his leg. You know you want to."
While I couldn’t deny that on some basic hormonal level I did want to run up to him and start humping his leg, my brain was too busy processing and fuming over the fact that Showalter had walked by me while I was standing on a street with limp hair, smudged eye liner and jerking around like a palsy patient in an attempt to demonstrate the gold boots dance.
No. That did not just happen to me.
Quickly I revised my plan from meeting him and being witty and charming to meeting him and not making a complete goober out of myself.
Of course, 5 minutes later when Eugene Mirman walked by the line, I was able to act like a completely normal person, say hey and crack a joke, which he in turn chuckled at. In case you didn’t catch that,
Eugene Mirman laughed at my joke. "That’s how you should have been when Showalter waked past," Renée observed.
"Yes, I KNOW THAT."
We went into the
Troc, which happens to be one of my favorite venues. It’s this great old theater that used to be a burlesque show house. It sort of looks like it’s falling apart (and it probably is, actually) but in an artful, eloquent way. In the upstairs men’s bathroom, there’s peep holes over the urinals so the men could look at nudie pictures while they peed. One time, while Kelly and I were waiting outside for the doors to open before an
N Crowd show, an old man in a bow tie and a straw boater hat stopped us and told us about how he used to go the Trocadaro for the "hootchie-cootchie" shows when he was in the Navy and told us about the feather dances the "girlies" would do.
The Troc is wonderful.
Renée and I settled up top in the balcony for the show. The show was, of course, hysterical. I swear, Eugene Mirman is the next Mitch Hedberg, only without the death. He showed his Special Agent video ("I’ll kick you in the dick so hard you’ll cum fear") and did a great bit with a telemarketer. And Leo Allen, who I had never heard of before this show, was surprisingly good as well. And of course Showalter was very funny. I loved his Songs You’re Ashamed of Having on Your iPod bit. If the show comes to
your town you should really go see it.
By the time the show was over, I had a couple of drinks, so I was feeling a bit more relaxed, but still disheveled. Disheveled or not, now was the time to meet them as they were all at the back of the house signing posters and CDs.
So Renée and I were waiting in line, towards the back, but only Eugene and Leo were there. Someone towards the front of the line asked where Michael was.
"Oh he’s coming," Eugene commented. "Michael SLOWalter, that’s what we call him."
Just then, I turned around and Michael was there, trying to make his way to the front so he could start signing stuff. Renee nudged me. Michael looked right at me. "Hi," I said.
"Hi there" he replied. And then he walked on by me up to the front.
I looked Renée, slow smile spreading across my face. "We spoke."
"I know. I saw the speaking."
We waited in line, until some people on our right moved out and there was an opening. "Go! Go! " Renée nudged me forward.
"All right, who else wants a poster?" Leo asked. I raised my hand and some guy on my left raised his hand at the same time. Leo looked at me. "I gotta do ladies first. What’s your name?"
"Katie, with a K." Leo quickly signed my poster and passed it down to Michael. "Sign this for Katie." It was now or never. I leaned over.
"Um, Congratulations on
The Baxter. It was a really sweet, funny film."
"Oh thank you."
"Yeah, we really enjoyed it."
Renee leaned over, "We came into the city to see it, made a day out of it."
I know what Renée was trying to convey with this sentence. When
The Baxter came out, it was out on limited release, so we came into the city and went to the Ritz to see it. It was late summer/early fall, and it was a beautiful afternoon. After the movie, all Showalter and Paul Rudd-ed out, we decided to have lunch outdoors at a nearby café. By "lunch" I mean "split an order of pub fries and drank an entire carafe of cabernet sauvigion." Because Renée and I are classy that way. Afterwards on the train ride home we ran into our former religious studies professor from college while still tipsy. Good times, y’all. Good times.
Michael looked up, "That is so nice of you guys. Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. Now, who’s Katie?"
"Me!" I said brightly. He passed the poster to me. I moved back and let Renée in to get her poster signed.
OK, so I wasn’t exactly suave and witty, and I may have erred more on the side of geeky fan girl, but at least I wasn’t a complete tard.
But the next time Michael Showalter comes to town? One of his beers is on me.
