Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Not to drop names, but ...

I stood next to Vince Vaughn while I was on Wrigley Frickin' Field in the middle of the Cubs starting lineup on Monday night.

All of this would be especially cool if I could name one Cubs player or one Vince Vaughan movie (besides Wedding Crashers, which I went to only because I would divorce my husband in a second if Bradley Cooper showed up at my door in a towel and demanded that I kiss him).

But rubbing elbows with famous people you know nothing about is just one of the things you have to endure when you sing the National Anthem at a Cubs game. So I just put up with it and move on.

For the record, Vince (I call him Vince) was there to throw out a pitch and lead the crowd (extremely well!) in "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and I sang the National Anthem with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus, though singing it solo is totally on my bucket list. I've emailed the Cubs repeatedly to figure out how to get an audition but I've never heard back. I suppose I could call and try to talk to an actual person. Or ask the CGMC general manager for a contact name. Maybe I should make this an official 2010 resolution.

In any case, I've been waiting for people to post decent pictures of us singing on Facebook, but so far nothing has surfaced. (Sheesh! We can find the funding to make a sitcom about show choirs but we can't get one decent picture of a bunch of homos singing at a Cubs game? I blame Joe Wilson. What a douche.)

There's a behind-the-scenes video of us singing on Facebook, but as usual I can't get the damn thing to work on my blog. But I did get a screen grab of Matthew and me singing our patriotic little hearts out. Do not mock me for my weird little-boy haircut or I will hunt you down and cut you. I totally cheated on my regular haircut guy on Friday and I am paying a terrible, terrible price right now. But my regular haircut guy had a waiting list longer than Rush Limbaugh's rehab so I impulsively went with someone else who had no waiting list. And it turns out there was a reason this street mountebank was so available; my simple little haircut takes 10 minutes in the hands of a sober three-year-old, but Signor Pirelli took a whopping 45 minutes to make me look like I'd had a plus-size yarmulke tattooed on my head:

After we sang, Matthew and I changed out of our monkey suits (in the Wrigley Field bathroom, which is about as repulsive as Papa Nazi in a Speedo) and took our seats with Matthew's fiance Craig and our friend Brad, who was my proxy husband while the real one was out of town, for what turned out to be a pretty exciting game ... even though the final score was only 2-0. And the Cubs totally beat the Brewers. SUCK IT, MILWAUKEE! (Did that little outburst make me sound butch? Does the fact that I'm holding a beer in this picture make me look even butcher?)

For the record, I'd rather eat a bucket of goat butts than drink a beer. But I had to hold Brad's beer so he could take our picture. Which gave me tons of street cred as a Cubs fan. Especially since I had such a horrible haircut.

Of course, I lost all street cred when we lined up like the Andrews Sisters for one more picture. But at least I didn't succumb to peer pressure and wear my jaunty Cubs apparel. Which would have looked totally gay.

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