Jamtart Hotel

Paul and I spent $320 on tickets to see Britney Spears Tuesday.

Before you mock me, consider what that money was really spent towards: no, not listening to Britney’s prerecorded vocal tracks or watching her back-up band play unplugged instruments. The money was spent towards drowning in an ocean of teenage girls wearing impossibly short skirts and midriffs. The hallways of NC Arts Center were veritable jamborees of jamtarts – you couldn’t sneeze without spraying down a gaggle of scantily-clad teenie boppers, and, in fact, I required every ounce of restraint in my being to keep my saliva, amongst other fluids, out of grasp from these suburban Hot Topic queens.

Our closest brush with long-term prison sentences came during the opening act, when three girls approached me about purchasing beer for them – I’m sure they just left their IDs at home, right? Right. Clutching a beer in each hand and obviously intoxicated, I informed the girls that I was only in high school, and unable to purchase alcohol on their behalf. They asked what high school I attended, and I told them Brooklyn Technical High School in Brooklyn, NY – my alma mater, had I not dropped out. As if the dark circles and thousand-yard stare-of-infinite-jadedness didn’t give it away, their collective response of “OMG, we go 2 Tech!! G0 ENGINEERS!!! (yeah...the football team was the Brookly Tech Engineers...no wonder they lost all their games)” pretty much guaranteed that they wouldn’t be buying my shtick. I began listing off teachers who hadn’t taught at the school for ten years, and my ruse was called out quickly thereafter, but, still, these girls were looking for trouble. Two of them confessed that they thought we “were totally cute,” a phrase I haven’t heard since I was 12. I half-expected to be passed a note that read, “Want to go out with me? Check YES or NO.”

Even after two of them left (presumably fearing their impending loss of innocence), the third pushed valiantly (and foolishly) forth, choosing to hang out with us ancient perverts instead of her friends -- silly, silly little girl.

Lucky for all of us, reasonable heads prevailed, and we ditched the jailbait to go enjoy the soothing, prerecorded harmonies of Britney Spears. Being the puss-shivering pimps that we are, we had fourth row seats next to the stage, and I could practically smell the Britster’s ass.

I know I’ve talked before about how I was going to bag Britney one of these days, and I was pretty sure Tuesday was going to be that glorious day - my left nipple could pierce Kevlar, and that fleshy little nubbin is more powerful than Nostradamus, John Edwards, and Miss Cleo all rolled into one freakish lump of psychicness. The nipple is all-knowing, or so I thought. Alas, it was not to be. Once again, I squandered my opportunity to lay the Greek Gyro to a pop superstar, and I fear by the next tour, Britney will already be entirely too old to be worth banging.

I’ll have to set my sights on Jamie Lynn, Instead.