You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy

I learned this weekend that I am a close, personal friend of Arcade Fire. Closer than six-degrees of Kevin Bacon close. In high school I starred in a student-directed, one act play with Will Butler -- well, in truth he starred in the play and they let me have a part because it was high school and like only six people try out for student-produced plays. And yes, the acting is as bad as it sounds: Will's stage presence tended to be the exception whereas mine tended to be the rule (i.e. mediocre at best).

Anyway, this is definitely one of those circumstances where I remember him but there's no way he remembers me, especially now that he's famous and dances shamelessly in public the way I (shamefully) do when no one is home. Sigh, talent gets all the perks. I wish I had known that I knew him when I saw them in concert last year. His bro and front man kept giving the crowd crap for not being rowdy enough (we weren't, but that wasn't my fault -- blame the Dutch...they can be awkward). I could have given a high school shout out or tried to weasel my way back stage for one of those "Hey, remember me?" awkward conversations you have with people you don't really remember, but pretend to so as not to be rude. (last time I forgot to pretend I knew someone, they reported back to Coltrane that I was an evil bitch -- hey, not my fault if you are just another rower I don't know.....oooooh, now she really is a Ceee U Next Tuesday).

I was informed of my semi-relationship to this semi-star over the weekend when Charlo "I now give wicked good hugs" T. was in town for an Amsterdam quickie from London. Joined by another friend of hers who was also an ex-rower, ex-New Englander type, we spent the weekend playing the name game and generally reminiscing about the good ole days (in truth boarding school was my own personal social hell, but hey, if I had actually had friends I would not have been able to pass classes).

Highlight of the weekend was not the Dutch losing to the Russians (Holland Hup no more...), but rather gettin' busy to Arcade-esque music at the best sweaty club ever. We checked out Club Rascal -- an Indie disco night that rotates locations every month or so -- on the top floor of some building in the west of the city. It was like hipster heaven except people were not afraid to admit they enjoyed dancing (I saw at least 40 people smiling...oh the irony). Unfortunately, it must have been 35°C and we were not the only people removing clothing on the dance floor and taking "glistening" to a whole new level. "Then, we tried to name our babies, but we forgot all the names that...the names that we used to know (doo doo doo doo)....(doo doo doo doo)..."