Blackballed

Groucho said he wouldn't want to be in a club who'd have him as a member. I love the line. I just wish I agreed with it.

Yesterday was an interesting day in Betland. I knew it would be pretty interesting, but I wasn't at all prepared for just how interesting it became. I did know this - I'd have to work all day at TheCompanyIWorkFor, find a way (it can be done, I did it last week) to change into my dirndl at work, and hit the road for B'burg no later than 5:00 on the dot. Because I had to be in B'burg at 6:30 for a concert with the Sauerkraut Band. I was expecting the stomach churns that come from my being rushed. I just don't do "rushed" well.

San and I had a fairly leisurely afternoon together at the office. At least until 4:45. I'd already taken the bank deposit across the street and had removed my shoes and socks and was sitting at my desk barefoot when San informed me I had to call a client. This client is an extremely nice fellow, as is his whole family, but this client also has the slight drawback of English as a second language and is often quite hard to converse with. I steeled myself and dialed the phone, now with one arm out of my blouse and my pants unzipped, in an effort to get a jump-start on the dirndl.

Now, while I was having a conversation with Mr Client, San was the lucky recipient of a mother and daughter, also two very lovely people normally, who'd just been involved in an accident. It was your run-of-the-mill accident, well, to us, I guess when it happens to you it's not so run of the mill. And so both of them were in complete hysterics. Screaming, crying, screaming while crying, all very loudly, while I was trying to understand the broken English of Mr Client.

That was going on on my end of the phone. On Mr Client's end, well, he was trying to understand me and be understood himself - while his son was very enthusiastically practicing the trombone. (I'm 99% sure it was "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas," for those of you keeping score at home.)

So I was talking, and listening to screaming, crying, mass hysteria, broken English, and trombone playing, and watching the clock grow ever closer to five. And it got there.

I finally edged Mr Client off the line by telling him I'd be glad to check out his questions by calling the Regional Office, but they were closed right now, and wouldn't re-open till tomorrow. And so tomorrow I'd be glad to have his answers tomorrow, if he could wait till tomorrow, when I'd find all that out. Tomorrow.

As for San, I don't know how in the hell she did it, but she had those people from mass fucking hysteria to, "OK, see you tomorrow!" in the blink of an eye. Maybe she flashed a gun at them, I don't know. Whatever she did, I owe her.

So I started hopping around all over the damn place finishing up my dressing (part of the hysteria was conducted in the front office while I was naked in the back), and I grabbed my stuff and ran out the door, armhole of my dirndl around my neck, back of it in my underwear, shoes on the wrong feet.

When I got to the car it was 5:11. I was pretty much doomed. Not much reason to even start. But I couldn't help it. I really wanted to be at this concert, because it was at the German Club.

The German Club is the most exclusive fraternity at Virginia Tech, and in the world of southern college fraternities, I guess that's saying something, at least if you're into that kind of thing. I've seen their chalet-looking building from the road on campus many times, wondering what those hallowed halls must look like inside. When the chance to actually find out came along, I was going to do everything I could to take it.

And so I started up podmobile2 and proceeded to bust it.

Now, I don't like to speed anymore, well, actually, that's a lie because I love to speed, but I don't do it anymore since the $150 speeding ticket a couple of years ago. I'm an exceedingly good girl now in this area, but tonight I lapsed. I made a 90 minute trip in an hour and 10 minutes, screeching past the stone pillars at the driveway of the German club on two wheels and whipping into the parking lot.

My stomach and heart were still going 90 miles an hour while I hopped out of the car, tied on my apron, pulled the dress tail out of my rear end, and grabbed my stuff. I could see the band inside the club warming up, and I ran, still on high speed (or "puree," if you're a blender), and pulled open the door.

Where everything hit a dead stop. "Ho-leeee sheeiit," I said, under my breath.

It didn't take the time for the door to hit my ass for me to realize that this was a place that didn't want me in it. It was swanky. It was full of codgers who'd never seen a poor person. It had a big German Club seal on the wall surrounded by pictures of big important alumni. And a huge portrait of some dude I'm assuming was Mr German Club, their founder. Huge fixtures. Huge stone fireplace. Huge everything.

I walked over and started getting my stuff together, and Ed was nice enough to take my coat to the coatroom. I grabbed my mug and went over to the bar for a meager glass of water. And I stood there (and this was no big surprise to me, I'm not that much of a rube) while all the rich people who came to the bar behind me got their drinks. With every new rich person the bartender would look at me, mouth "I'm sorry," and serve up liquor to the wealthy. I waited there so long the band started the first song without me.

I finally waited out the rich drinkers and made it back to the band in time to play the last page of the first song. When we finished with our usual flourish, the assembled crowd - well, have you seen "The Producers?" Right after the end of "Springtime for Hitler," when they show the faces of the audience? Well, that's what we saw. Those people were looking at us like we were from outer fucking space. The only difference to the movie is that we didn't have the luxury of one poor soul who clapped for us. Ours was complete silence.

For the next song, we went with a waltz. Our fearless leader Ed stressed that we needed to keep it quiet and tame (we were already that, for us, we weren't even mic'ed), and so we started the waltz. Again, at the end, stunned silence. So we decided we'd try a quiet and tame polka.

At the end of the polka, Ed finally stood, raised his glass, and we sang a round of "Ein Prosit" and toasted each other. And you think they looked funny at us before? Good God's Hat, it was amazing. It was also the first time the director of the shindig visited Ed.

She would do this several times during our playing spell. It was always in a whisper, and it always began the same way. "I'm sorry - I love you." Then Ed would nod, pick out a song, and tell us to do it slower, quieter, and tamer.

My dear blogees, the Sauerkraut Band has played gigs at convalescent homes, with people in comas being wheeled in on gurnees, that were rowdier. We were doing waltzes so slowly that we'd actually lose our places schunkeling. "Wait, I was going to the right. Wait, it's not the next measure yet." And after a couple of songs, along would come the co-ordinator. "I'm so sorry - I love you."

And Ed would tell us quieter and tamer. He actually counted our four beats into one song by saying, in a whisper, "Ein, Zwei, Drei, piano!"

And here's the thing. We weren't even in and among these people! We were on one side of the stone fireplace, and they were on the other. And every once in a while you'd see some old-monied blowhard, from the nose up, peeping from behind the stone fireplace wondering who in the hell let this bunch of lunatics in the door. I swear I looked up at the wall at one point to see the portrait of Mr German Club change from his having his hands folded in front of him to having his hands covering his ears. I might have been hallucinating, though. It was a pretty surreal experience.

Finally, the co-ordinator came over to Ed again, whispering, "I'm sorry - I really do love you," and then some more whispering took place, and I heard her whisper, "At least you'll get paid." And I knew we'd gotten the Antique Handcrafted 24-Karat Golden Hook.

The Sauerkraut Band had been officially kicked out of the German Club.

We were told, and this was by Ed, so I don't know if it was a missive from the co-ordinator, to pick up all our stuff, carry it outside, and we'd disassemble it and pack it away in the parking lot. In the 30 fucking degree parking lot. But I was otherwise occupied high fiving band members and saying, "We got kicked out of the German Club!" and then went to fetch my coat, saying to anyone who'd listen that I really hoped my $14.99 Wal-Mart sweatjacket hadn't been stolen by one of these hoo-hahs.

Oddly enough, no one stole my $14.99 sweatjacket. I picked it up and headed outside, where we finished packing it in in the 30 fucking degree parking lot, then a few of us decided to go out to dinner.

And so it was over. Blackballed from the German Club. By the way, the German Club has absolutely nothing to do with Germany, save for the fact that I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find some of them had descended from nazis, but for the love of Jehovah, they had to know who we were. They hired us, for fuck's sake. Did they think the Sauerkraut Band was a chamber orchestra?

Anyway, back to my old friend Groucho. Since he doesn't want to be in a club that would have him as a member, the logical next step is that he'd only want to be in a club that wouldn't want him as a member. A bold philosophy, but I just can't cotton to it. It may be nice knowing that I'm pissing someone off by my very presence, but the emotional turmoil of being in theirs is too great.

Fuck the German Club. Get me back on the mountain with my rowdy, fun-loving buddies. Common, but yet so uncommon.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* The Special K people need to get better commercial writers. Has anyone seen the one where the skinny woman meets her friends for breakfast? And the voiceover says, "Studies show that women who eat breakfast like Special K weigh less." But when said aloud, all I get from it is, "Studies show that women who eat breakfast like Special K way less."