I’m an unabashed fan of Barenaked Ladies, the literal meaning of the phrase and, arguably more so, the band. After being talked into attending a concert in November 2000, I’ve bought every CD, learned every song, and even have a ridiculously dorky t-shirt with a thumbs up on it. I fervently defend them and block out the laughs when I tell people of my favorite band and they think I’m joking.
BNL have released a children’s album, “Snacktime,” and are doing a mini-promotional tour. Upon hearing they’d be at the nearby grove on June 11th, I was giddy with enthusiasm.
Then something better came along.
My producer sent out an e-mail to the team that he found amusing. It was promoting an upcoming BNL show at The TreeHouse, a swanky childcare center in Beverly Hills. This exclusive show was only $25 per ticket. With an arousal usually reserved for bedroom antics, I tracked down the number of the venue. The fact that it was a childrens album being peformed at a daycare center did make for a mild red flag, but I forged ahead anyways.
“Hello, Treehouse,” the woman answered.
“Hi, I’d like to purchase tickets to the Barenaked Ladies show,” I said enthusiastically.
“OK, great,” She said. “Are you a member of the Treehouse?”
A bit of panic began to set in. Maybe getting the tickets wouldn’t be so easy.
“Um, no, we’re just really big fans of the band and would love to see them perform for the kids,” the dispair set in.
“Sir, this show is for members only. How many children do you want to bring, and how many in your party total?”
“Well, no kids. Just two adults.”
“This is a kids’ show.”
“Like I said, I’m just a huge fan. Is there anything you can do?”
“Let me check with my boss.”
I was put on hold for a minute, but I already knew the answer.
“Hi sir. This is a members only show with a 50 seat venue, so we’re not allowing outsiders to purchase. But, give me your name and number and I’ll call you if something changes.”
At this point, embarassment set in. This woman probably thought I was a creepy child molestor wanting in the children’s concert under the guise of a true fan. I was going to say “at least she doesn’t know who I am,” but I promptly gave her my name and number, so I’m most likely blacklisted from The Treehouse for life.
Although I suffered some mild embarassment and the chance that people I don’t know think I’m creepy for wanting to go to a children’s rock concert, it was worth it for the slim chance that they’d call back and let me see the show.
And I wouldn’t bring any candy, I swear.