Operation ÖSTERREICH
While a rock show should almost always be cataloged under Project MERCATOR, I had to go to Friday, February 26's Loose Ties show by my lonesome. The Impossible Ingenue was granted her spring break wish of being allowed to go visit family in rural Indiana, ferried to the Hoosier State by her cousin-cum-sister the Drama Queen. The Cowgirl spent the evening at home with her son (no complaint on my part there, her adorable little boy's case was far stronger than mine). Frankenstein's Monster cited foul weather and worsening road conditions as excuses, though foul weather and worsening road conditions hardly stopped him from so spectacularly flummoxing up New Year's Eve with his puerile dramatics; so, to blazes with him. The Most Dangerous Game is a whirling dervish of frenetic energy until she suddenly and completely crashes; that night, she crashed and was in no way up to coming out. Ska Army was there, but of course he's one of The Loose Ties.

So, I went to the show alone, though the blow was softened when my somewhat tardy arrival was greeted by a collective cheer from The Loose Ties, "Superfan!," reflecting the status with which I was honored after the previous weekend's show at Churchill's. And I did encounter at Woobie's a lad we'll call Hats McGee, for his habitual pairing of those atrocious modern trilbys, the patterned ones, with T-shirts and shorts. Hats is a member of the Econ Club, though not really a member of my Econ Club-centered social circle; he is, however, quite a fan of live music (though his own taste is highly suspect) and an enthusiastic skanker. Because of my abandonment by my faithless friends, I decided early on, as I skanked my way to exhaustion, that I could not really blog about the show as part of Project MERCATOR; due to the exercise I was getting, I could reasonably count the evening toward Operation ÖSTERREICH.

Project MERCATOR
But perhaps I arrived at that judgment a shade too quickly. As mentioned above and at the time, I was invested with the title of "Superfan" by The Loose Ties after their show on Friday, 19 February; when I belatedly walked through the back door to Woobie's Bar & Nightlife one week later, the band greeted me as if I were Norm Peterson entering Cheers (or Morn entering Quark's). Between sets, I chatted not only with Ska Army and Hats McGee, but with Jameson the Bass Player and Matt the Drummer, at their instigation. Now perhaps it's just something wrong with me, but I'm always slightly uncomfortable when interacting with The Loose Ties. The ongoing transition from fan to pal has been slow and cautious and I've watched closely for any sign that I'm the annoying fan the band secretly hates and detected nothing; so, I suspect this lingering ill-ease is a trap of the dark bastard's device, one that now spotted can be readily sidestepped.

In the midst of the third set, as Hats McGee and I skanked away, I suddenly became aware of the presence of Lord Luck, lord high muckamuck and my old manager from my days as a minion at the comic book store. I'd seen him and his party enter, but somewhere between my eyes and my brain the significance of what I was seeing became lost. But he and the pair of girls with him slipped past my skanking hulk to access the short end of the bar and I performed a literal double take. My face lit up upon recognizing him, and he, too, seemed pleased to see me. I was introduced to his girl, Amy, and we three engaged in a lively discourse for a few minutes before I excused myself to turn back to the band and resume skanking.

Just a song or two later, The Loose Ties played (for the second time that evening as they were running long on time and short on songs) their romantic reggae ballad, "Where's the Girl?", and I was inspired suddenly to play social director. I leapt over to Lord Luck & Amy and said to him, "If you're going to dance with her, this is the one." Without a moment's hesitation, and that is what's great about Lord Luck, he slid off his heavy leather jacket and began dancing with his girl. I turned to an attractive couple who had been sitting, nodding their heads to the music all evening, and pointed two fingers at them. After only a moment, they rose from their table and made their way to the dance floor, such as it was. Two couples slow danced where before three single chaps had skanked (Hats McGee; the brother of one of The Loose Ties, who had been the drummer of their previous, largely overlapping band Another Misprint; and yours truly). But why stop there? I mentioned that Lord Luck had with him a pair of girls, his gal Amy and her sister, who I came to learn is named Stephanie. I strode over to Stephanie and offered her my hand. She gave me a brief, quizzical look, then set down her coat, took hold of my offered left hand, and accepted my right hand as it settled upon her waist. We danced for the remainder of "Where's the Girl?" and she mentioned that she'd seen me skanking, but had failed at her one attempt to learn the moves from Lord Luck. When the faster music resumed, I took both her hands in mine and we stood facing each other. Then we started kicking out our legs to the rhythm, both our right legs then both our lefts. It wasn't quite skanking, but it was only just short of the mark.

When The Loose Ties were finished, having no other obligations, I elected for the first time not to leave Woobie's right away, but to stay and have a drink.

Project PANDORA
I was carded when I ordered a Woodchuck earlier in the evening, but by the end of The Loose Ties' set, I was able to order a gin & tonic from a different bartender (who looked like he was sixteen) without producing identification. Andre the Saxophonist boggled at my choice of drink and I offered my favorite facetious explanation, "You need the gin to cut the bitterness of the tonic water, and the tonic water to cut the bitterness of the gin."

We were discussing the vagaries of bar I.D.ing practices when the bartender returned with my G&T and chimed in, "Yeah, ordering a drink like this kind of proves that I don't need to check your I.D." I then offered that this might be a perfect plan for seventeen year olds who wished to imbibe. I soon found myself next to and engrossed in conversation with Ska Army when an idea began to form in my head. 'Twas a bold plan of action, too bold by far for the Mike of days gone by, but after only a few moments of deliberation I put it into effect and excused myself from Ska Army's company.

I found Lord Luck & Amy at the pool table and put my questions to him with only minimal preamble. The aforementioned Stephanie had no boyfriend, no obvious obstacle to my asking her out save her residence in Ann Arbor. No problem, I love Ann Arbor! I know this was quick, damned quick, but even before learning that she lived in A² I was resolved to ask her out that very evening. Yes, we had shared only one casual dance and I could not say that I really knew anything about her, but we'd made each other laugh and she was cute and I simply could not count on this chance ever again presenting itself. I have lost years of my life—years!—pining away for girls, being too afraid of rejection to act, getting to know them over a periods of months and psyching myself out from ever asking them to accompany me for an evening out on the town. That's no way to live. I won't be cowed any longer. I'd rather roll the dice, even an a stupid, reckless toss with no real chance of success. In the immortal words of Admiral Farragut, "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!"

So, I sidled over to the table where Stephanie sat with her friends (the move to Ann Arbor turned out to be recent) and set myself down in an empty seat next to her. After a short conversation about the then-underway Olympics (Woobie's had several of its wall-mounted televisions tuned to coverage of the Games, and one and all had cheered in vain for Slovakia to triumph over Canada in men's hockey, thereby keeping our neighbors to the north out of the gold medal game), I made my radical proposal: I would give her my mobile telephone number and on a night of her choosing I would drive down to Ann Arbor and we would have dinner together. She asked if I liked vegetarian cuisine and I replied that I'd love to try vegetarian. She evaded with a rather lame, "I'm not really dating right now," but I was already satisfied with how events had unfolded. I'd been charming, I'd been bold (yes, arguably too bold), and if she wanted to pass up the splendid opportunity being presented to her, well, that was her loss, nothing to do with me. I told her to call me anyway, should it strike her fancy, that regardless of anything else we'd have a nice meal and lovely night out.

In the week and a half since she has not called, but really and truly aside from composing this past I have not thought about her; so, I am unperturbed. (For those who are curious, nothing substantial could ever have existed between us in any event. Not only did she allude to being a vegetarian, but during the Olympic discussion she explicitly stated her admiration for the nefarious Apolo Ohno; entirely separate for my disdain for the "Olympic Movement," I despise Ohno as a showboat and, worse, a cheater. It is an embarrassment that that scoundrel has been allowed to represent this great country not once, not twice, but thrice at the Winter Games, and I could never harbor any significant affection for someone who so idolized him.) She hasn't called, but that's out of my hands. I acted decisively, a significant victory for Project PANDORA given my sorry history of hesitation and paralysis.