CIRCUMSTANCE:

Have you ever done one of those things where you’re trying to be ironically ridiculous, but then later wonder if, ironically, you were just plain ridiculous?

In the convoluted, ’round-about way that one gets oneself involved in stuff one wasn’t looking to get involved in, my co-worker Sally volunteered me to be a lounge singer for a fund-raiser that her sister was helping to organize. At first it sounded like fun. And then it didn’t, so I tried to find some other victim to pass the baton to.

But I was stuck with it, so last night I dragged my friend Stacy into doing a “Steve and Eydie” act (if you’re old enough to know who they are) as the pre-event lounge show for PacRep’s “Swingin’ with the Rat Pack.”

When you’re trying to be cheesy, then cheesy’s o.k. in my book, so we “pomp“ed and “bouff“ed ourselves up in a gently mocking take on the era and put together subtle stuff like “Strangers in the Night,” “L-O-V-E,” yadada yadada and were totally content to leave it at that.

Except that the organizer threw us for a loop and insisted we sing ‘New York, New York.”

There’s no being subtle with “New York, New York.” When you sing that song, people actually think you mean it and you turn into the kind of person that they parody on Saturday Night Live. And as the last refrain of “New York, New York” died along with my soul, I immediately began suffering post-traumatic stress. Having now actually sung that song in public, I have gone from being in on the joke, to, well, one of those people who appears clueless to their cheesiness.

Oh, wait a minute…I DID agree to do a lounge act in the first place. I guess I AM one of those people who is clueless to their cheesiness.

Sigh.