Our first stop was the 700 Club. We found ourselves quickly on the dance floor and close to a group of girls, one of whom I thought was kinda cute. She was dancing a lot and she smiled and laughed almost the entire time. I found myself trying to stay close-ish to her group, just in case she decided to dance her way over and allow me the opportunity to utterly shun her.

NO. That wasn’t going to happen this time. I was totally ready for her. We were going to dance awkwardly together and I’d pray that she didn’t catch on that I was PETRIFIED of her. This was going to work, seriously. I AM READY! We’re going seize this moment, this once-in-a-lifetime kind of moment, and we will use it as the foundation for our lifelong love. Just her, me, and the “Humpty Dance.”

And then… well, the opportunity never came and Sean was ready to leave. But he had to use the rest room first. And so we made our way downstairs and I waited for him when smiley girl found her way to where I was standing alone. She asked me why I had stopped dancing and I explained that we were on our way out. She told me that she enjoyed watching us dance… that we were “really good.” I was probably blushing but I said something and got her to laugh. We talked some more and we laughed a lot and she touched my arm. I was being hit on for the FIRST TIME EVER I THINK. And it was going well!

Except for the fact that I decided to immediately tell her that I was moving across the country in a few days and that I was basically leaving Philly because I hate it and that there’s basically no point in us continuing this conversation and then I basically forgot her name and then we left to go to another club and I basically didn’t invite her along or get her number or her email address or GODDAMNIT EVEN REMEMBER HER NAME even though she was giggly and funny and smart and cute and liking me.

Club number 2: Silk City. It was packed and we were dancing immediately. I was still hating myself. “Sexy Back” came on. And then my hit-on-by-girl-count doubled.

A couple of measures into the song, I had hands on my waist and a girl aggressively making her way to face me. And then she asked me this:

“Are YOU bringing sexy back?”

I didn’t know what to say. To be fair, my loss for words was not only out of an inexperience in the fine art of graciously accepting romantic attention. But also this was the dumbest thing a human has ever asked me.

But I’m a new person now. I’m dropping everything and moving to California. I’m determined to stop being shy. I’m going to say things I mean to say and be charming and funny. I’m going to dance with girls and not spit gum on them. I’m going to avoid responding to “are YOU bringing sexy back” by saying:

“HUHUH, I NEVER HAD IT TO BEGIN WITH!”

Unfortunately, I’m going to have to get a late start on that last one, because that’s exactly what I said to her. 3 minutes of awkward, arms-length dancing followed. We closed with a handshake.

By 1998, I had developed an addiction to mail ordering records from Insound. It seemed that with every Great Adventure paycheck came a package of new music for me to obsess over. Many of my purchases were heavily influenced by Insound’s staff as I’d pour over their recommendations, seeking out specific descriptors that would trigger an immediate purchase. And what they had to say about Death Cab for Cutie and Flake Music sounded pretty great.

So I ordered Something About Airplanes and When You Land Here, It’s Time To Return and, as usual, Insound was right. In fact, Flake Music would eventually change its name to The Shins and become America’s best (current) rock band. And Death Cab For Cutie would eventually, well… they’d eventually get kinda boring and absolutely huge. But I became quickly obsessed with Airplanes and the “Prove My Hypothesis b/w Wait” 7″ (a performance of which I’ll post below as they are still among my favorite DCFC songs), and the following year found me making cassettes of these records for anyone who cared to listen to them.

My friend Jeff cared and when we heard that the band would be playing Upstairs at Nick’s in Philly, we jumped on the opportunity to show some support. It was my first 21+ show and DCFC opened for American Analog Set. I had many of their songs memorized for optimal lip-syncing and was very excited to finally see this new favorite band.

When we arrived, however, it became painfully obvious that Jeff and I were the only people there to see the opening act. Or the only people not physically repulsed by them, for that matter. DCFC began and the room emptied, leaving just us and those who were tied to their drinks and desperately wishing they could leave. It was mildly embarrassing and we felt horrible. After their set (which was excellent), we spent some time chatting with the band to ensure that they knew how much we enjoyed their music and I bought a tee shirt that was 2 sizes too big (because 21 year old me had decided he wore extra large shirts).

With topics for discussion seemingly depleted and heading towards “so, what kind of tuning did you use on such-and-such song,” it was time to say our goodbyes to the band. When we turned and made our way towards the back of the club, however, we noticed two things: 1) Nick’s had an arcade machine and 2) a pretty girl had actually stuck around to watch the band and was now sitting next to said arcade machine. Obviously, it was time to play some video games.

I took the joystick closest the girl who was actually leaning against the machine. From where I was standing, I could see only her bare knees poking out to my left. She was either wearing a skirt or no pants at all. I assumed the former and fought the urge to double-check. Jeff and I played a few rounds while American Analog Set was positioning their equipment on stage. I was having fun and was beating Jeff when I SPIT MY GUM ON THE PRETTY GIRL.

To be fair, I actually dropped it on her. Straight from my open mouth. I had looked down at the joystick for a moment and allowed the gum to escape. It made an unlikely journey past the arcade machine below and landed directly on pretty girl’s bare legs before falling to the floor. My face flared red and I began to lose the game on purpose so that the it would end quickly and we could GET THE SHIT OUT OF THERE. Pretty girl felt something and began to investigate. I imagine the revelation went like this:

Man, these guys are terrible… who plays video games at a show? And why is that guy wearing an extra large shir… wait, what was that? What just hit me on my leg? I don’t see anything on my leg. Maybe it’s on the floor. Oh, there’s something. Wait, is that… is that GUM? DID THIS MORON JUST SPIT GUM ON ME? HE JUST SPIT GUM ON ME. WHERE IS MY MACE AND/OR MY INHUMANLY LARGE BOYFRIEND?!

We escaped before being maced and/or pummeled. I became a mint enthusiast.

But here’s another one: I go absolutely nuts when a person acts as though he is doing you a favor when he’s merely doing what he’s supposed to do as a normal, thinking human being. I’m not doing a good job in describing exactly what I mean, so here is an example…

I went to get a haircut on Saturday, an errand that involved me taking a bus to Center City. As I walked the half block towards the bus stop, I noticed that the street was unusually packed. Our normally quiet street now had a line of cars stretching a couple of blocks in the lane directly in front of me. I struggled to see if traffic was being blocked further up the road when I noticed that there was a band performing in the park to my right. And there seemed to be a general commotion about the area, as though I was happening upon some sort of small festival. I assumed the event in the park and the crowded street were related. I was wrong.

I waited at a red light in anticipation of crossing the busy street to get to my stop. When my light turned green, I stepped into the street and was stopped short by a car running his red. I was mad, but thought very little of it while I made another attempt at making it to the other side. I took another step and found myself now blocking yet another driver who didn’t want to wait her turn. She slammed on her brakes, looked at me, and WAVED ME ACROSS as if to say, “FINE, I GUESS YOU CAN GO INSTEAD EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY ANYWAY AND I’M JUST A STUPID JERK. YOU’RE WELCOME.” And this is where I got stupid.

Standing in the middle of the street and in front of the car, I began to point at the driver. I then pointed at the red light, as if to say, “THAT ONE IS YOURS. IT MEANS YOU STOP.” I pointed to myself next, and then drew her attention to my green light. “THIS MEANS I WALK NOW.” And then I stood there, staring at this woman who looked as though she wanted to be anywhere else in the world but right there, until I received a yellow and I made my way across the rest of the street.

There was an older woman behind me, and she followed me to the other side. When we made it to our bus stop (SAFELY, THANK GOD), she waved at me to get my attention. She then pointed at the line of cars behind us, which of course included the woman who was just GIVEN A FREE LIFE LESSON COURTESY OF MY ANGRY GESTURING (you’re welcome), and said this:

“That’s a funeral procession.”

Yep, I had just pantomimed a bitch-out session at a mourner as she struggled to stay close to the other cars in the funeral procession of a loved one.

I’d say we can chalk that one up as a “low point.” And now I have a new pet-peeve: daytime running lamps.

Here’s a really stupid one. I have a physical inability to dance with attractive women.

In what may seem like an odd admission from a 30-year-old awkward mess of a non-drinking male, one of my favorite places to be is on the dance floor. My obsession with going out dancing is a tough one for me to rationalize, especially considering my crippling shyness, the increasing likelihood that I am the Creepy Old Guy at the Club, and my inability to perform much more than your standard side-step-touch side-step-touch. But I suppose there’s a strange power in the combination of my love of music and my tendency to relax amongst people who are becoming too drunk to even notice me. Even more curious, however, is that my time on the dance floor is far from passive. In fact, I’m a totally obnoxious ass. If I know the words to a song, you will know that I know them. If there’s a chance for me to loudly clap along to a complicated time signature, I will be doing that. If I can do some stupid dance move that will illicit even a smirk from a random on-looker, I am not above breaking out the running man. And any number of these things should be enough to warn women to look elsewhere for help in creating children who won’t eventually wind up on an episode of “Cops.”

But should a daring young lady experience any combination of sympathy, morbid curiosity, blinding drunkenness, or low self-esteem and decide that she’d like to dance with me, the following internal conversation is invariably triggered:

Oh, hey… that girl is cute. Whoa, wait… was that eye contact? Okay, she definitely smiled. WHOA, is she coming over here? Is she gonna dance with me? SHE WANTS TO DANCE. Okay… stay calm. Focus. You want this. She’s hot. Here she comes. Whoa, wait, STOP! What’s happening? TURN AROUND. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? I HATE YOU! GO BACK! MORON, SHE’S BEHIND YOU NOW. SHE WANTS TO DANCE. GO BACK. YOU ARE AN IDIOT. I HAAAATEEEE YOOOOUUUUU!

And by this point, I have TURNED MY BACK ON HER AND PHYSICALLY BLOCKED HER FROM DANCING WITH ME. This happens involuntarily, like the result of some INCREDIBLY STUPID gag reflex that doesn’t involve puking but rather the PUBLIC SHUNNING OF PRETTY WOMEN. It’s the unspoken, physical re-enactment of the following conversation:

Pretty girl: “Hey, I think you’re cute and you seem fun. Wanna dance?”
Me: “Fuck off. Can’t you see I’m not finished rapping both the male AND female parts of ‘I Got a Man’ over here? Talk to my back.”

My brain is totally right. I am a MORON. But here is some advice for you sympthetic, attractive ladies: PLEASE try moving beyond my peripheral vision and sneaking up on me. It may be my only hope.