Friday, April 27

My Night At The Museum

I swung by the American Museum of Natural History on Tuesday to see the gentlemen of Young the Giant play at SyFy's upfront, and kind of wasn't sure what I was in for. All I knew going into it was to be there at 6:30, and be dressed strictly "business casual."

I got there ten minutes late and wearing a Lou Reed t-shirt.

After an hour of presenting some of the oddest shows — one's hosted by Jaleel White and occurs entirely in the dark? — the boys played a couple of songs, we clapped a lot, someone who wasn't me won a trip around the world, and that was that. I had no idea what was in store until we left the boys' green room to walk to the "tech-savvy party" the network was throwing, which, when I found out was actually inside the museum, instantly turned into a hyperactive kid who was promised they'd get an ice cream cone and can't fully grasp what the concept of patience is.

 First, this happened:

YEP. Alone in the early settlers wing of the museum. No security guards, no confused tourists, nothing but a small amount of respect for artwork and fear of an alarm going off to stop us from stealing a caveman's battle axe.

(Imagine how Pinterest-worthy my apartment would be if I stole this for my living room.)

 Then, we walk through the hall of creepy crawlies to enter this:

YEP. PARTY IN THE WHALE ROOM. I had always dreamt of going to a wedding or a fundraiser in the Hall of Ocean Life after reading about it in some pompous column in Vogue or something like that, but never actually thought it would happen for me unless I was wearing a lady tuxedo and serving miniature egg rolls to old money types. I skipped around the top level for about five minutes proclaiming how unbelievable happy I was until I got sidetracked by this:

YEP. Why not eat like a pig after walking past an exhibit about them!? Pretzel balls, obscure unidentifiable curried objects, pasta troughs, ice cream food cones filled with went on and on. Not pictured: the glass of Jack Daniels I chugged because a drink, tiny plate of food and utensil are one too many things for two hungry hands to juggle.

Usually I'd pick party refreshments over mass-produced party snacks, but all the bites were created by Marcus Samuelsson. Who is he, you might ask? What does he look like again?

YEP. This happened. After blabbing about how great I think he is and him getting lost in the mountainesque world that is my earthen ring, we took a photo together with fork in hand, since I refused to put down the one thing standing between me and pieces of fatty steak being brought around on trays.

 It wasn't until four minutes later, when I prowled through a crowd, utensil in hand looking for animal slabs did I process what just happened. After taking our Hungry American Gothic portrait, I immediately turned to Marcus, and without a doubt in my mind, said the following:

 "Man, this is gonna be really awkward if I ever end up being a cannibal!"

...........??? a CANNIBAL. I've accosted plenty of famous people in plenty of humiliating ways, but that being the first thing that came to mind before "oh, the chicken was lovely!" or "oh, is it difficult to serve this many people at a large function?" or "oh, ANY OTHER COMBINATION OF WORDS BESIDES HEY THIS IS GOING TO BE WEIRD IF I EVER EAT PEOPLE" makes me think something is terribly wrong with my pea-sized brain on so many levels. 

After drowning my tard sorrows with more Jack Daniels, more marine life and more accidentally kissing someone else's boyfriend, we closed out the night with this:

YEP. Drunkenly touching everything on the way out before it's too late. When security's away, the boys will play...and then go to a bar specializing in pickle brine and feel terrible for their early morning flight.



Thanks to my dear friend Jes who documented some of the fatfest going on between my hand and my face as well as all other assorted embarrassments. All of our photos came out bright blue, but hey! We were underwater.

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