Everyone knows that people who hang out near the food at a party fall into two groups: they’re either socially awkward or hungry. Last Friday at the Museum of Contemporary Art, I fell into the latter category, but I met someone who didn’t. “So, have you tried one of these yet?” he asked, holding up a chocolate cookie the size of a nickel. We were standing at the buffet table at the museum’s First Fridays event and he was groping for conversation.
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First Fridays is ingeniously packaged as a high-minded art extravaganza, where for roughly the same price as admission during regular hours you get to walk around the museum between 6 and 10 PM on the first Friday of every month (the same night lots of galleries have openings), sample mozzarella sticks and chicken wings from Puck’s, and drink booze from a cash bar. But underneath that good-for-you artsy facade is a tawdry meatfest packed with twenty- to thirtysomething singles in Prada shoes and stylish glasses, all covered in a thin, grimy film of desperation.
Usually that’s about as blatant as the hookup side of the evening gets, but this being February, the MCA had to play the V-Day card. In one corner a few banquet tables were loaded with construction paper, stickers, markers, and scissors so people could make their own valentines–which, OK, is kinda cute. When you walked in, you were handed a badge with a number and a suggestive phrase (new love, my baby, loverboy, etc). If someone wanted to talk to you, instead of approaching you like a grown-up (or inquiring about your ocular health), they could leave a note for you at the coat check. If the dry-erase board next to it had your number on it, you had a message. The coat check was swamped all night.
Saturday night I was lying in bed reading the latest issue of V magazine, still recuperating from the previous night’s events, when my celly rang with a 630-area-code number I didn’t recognize. “Hi,” a man said affably. “A friend gave me your number. I heard you do some acting?”
I interrupted him. “It sounds too sexy for me. Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
Perhaps anticipating this reaction, the ad goes on to say that there’s no nudity. No acting experience is required. “Be yourself, and be lots of fun. We hope the pilot gets picked up by Spike or Playboy.” And it pays $7,500 for three weeks of work, “up to 70k in residuals” if the show gets picked up by a major network.
