“Well I have a microphone, and you don’t, SO YOU WILL LISTEN TO EVERY DAMN WORD I HAVE TO SAY.”

-Adam Sandler, The Wedding Singer

Who says you have to write every week to have a weekly blog? God? Miss Manners? The Mayans? One of the benefits of writing a weekly blog while being me is that I actually get to write whenever the hell I want. With or without Emily Post’s approval (it’s cool though, we’re tight. I knew her when she used to wear knickers and throw pebbles at the homeless).

If you haven’t gathered yet, I’m not very good at this “regularity” thing. But if Metamucil can do it for constipated people, then naggy texts and emails from a certain friend or two can do it for me!

Putting that unfortunate image aside, here’s a new thing I did recently:

#49 MC (the shit out of) an event

I’m pretty sure most of you who read this blog know what Paper Darts is (Hi Mom! Hi Grandmom!), but for those of you who don’t, it’s a literary magazine that I run with two of my friends and our somewhat recently acquired minions. A few weeks ago we celebrated the release of our third print issue with Paper Darts Volume Three Super Mega Dope LP (it just spills off the tongue, doesn’t it?) at Honey in Northeast Minneapolis.  We’d hosted two other pretty successful launch parties before this, and being “The Mouth” of Paper Darts, I was always inadvertently thrust into the role of awkwardly bumbling over semblances of thank yous and introductions to the crowd.

But this time, being our official Quinceanera and all, we wanted to do something bigger, something better, something less prone to make jokes about the Nasonex Bee over and over again. We wanted to hire an outside MC. Someone cool and hip and witty and professional who would spring across introductions, soar through transitions, and supply our adoring fans with just the right amount of snarky quips and amusing observations.

But then shit got busy and the actual process of asking someone to MC for us didn’t happen and eventually…

We got me. Again. (Nevermind the fact that towards the end there I did write an embarrassingly long email explaining why my co-editors should totally let me do it and how I’ll make them proud and yes, I promise I won’t use the word “bitchin” this time—let’s just pretend it was purely out of necessity, okay?)

And, though I’m not ruling out the possibility of complete delusion—I was roofied, I swear!—I think overall it actually went pretty well. Better than that stankyass, cheese-hatin’ ho Veganism, anyway.

Here are some things that I learned:

1) Bright Lights are Good! Bright Lights are Baaaad.

The positive side of multiple giant lights shining directly in your eyes? You can’t actually see all the people whose good favor you’re trying to win, and therefore can’t gauge whether or not you’re completely failing! Let me tell you, girl who was constantly frowning all night, you may have been constantly frowning all night, swirling your Girl-tini impatiently, rolling your eyes at my jokes about Facebook, and generally looking like an even more evil version of Gene Wilder, but bitch, I didn’t see it. And if I don’t see something, it doesn’t have any power over me. That’s why Uncle Poltergeist and I are on such good terms. The negative side of bright lights? All the people whose good favor you’re trying to win can see you. Really, really clearly. Sorry if I didn’t properly clean out my eye crusties that morning or something guys.

2) Two Drinks. No More, No Less.

As a wise author friend of mine once told me in an interview where we asked his advice for successful public speaking, the key is to have two drinks, no more, no less, before hitting the microphone. I heeded this advice, and it worked out great! I was just drunk enough to not hear myself that well but just sober enough to understand that I was talking. And that, as we all know, is the best way to make like Stefan Urquelle instead of Steve Urkel. Sweet, dreamy, misunderstood Stefan.

3) Always Bring Your Parents.

Aside from providing excellent fodder for off-the-cuff jokes (“Make sure to stick around for the Cleavage and Cufflinks dance party afterward, and say hi to my parents for me!”) they also serve as a supreme escape plan should shit start to go awry. Because nothing says adult like leaving your own party early to sit in the backseat of your parent’s mini-van, drunkenly wailing about how they should’ve sent you to a normal summer camp to be properly socialized instead of spending thousands of dollars paying for you to play stupid hockey all the stupid time. Generic stuff like that. Just don’t expect them to buy you drinks though, cause it ain’t cool to make your parents pay for your poor taste in alcohol (Windsor!).

Okay, well this was a long one, and I’m spent. Lucky for you though, I already have next week’s topic picked out.  Which means that maybe, just maybe, I’ll channel my inner Metamucil this time.

So thanks friends, and join me next week, when I (dun dun dun)…

Try to learn how to dance!!!

Later brahs.

*All images courtesy of Eyetography, those talented bassnerds.

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One Response to #49 MC THE SHIT OUT OF AN EVENT

  1. Jack says:

    I’ll settle for the Metamucil metaphor, but I aspire for a Windsor one someday.

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