...and THAT'S why I will never go to Hooters again.

OK look don't tell anyone, but I've become a square. Not that I was ever the paragon of cool, but I'd like to think that at one point in my life I was at least somewhat with it. Lately, that's not so much the case. This fact is put on painful display at work, where I have recently joined a firm whose entire staff appears to be younger than me. I just turned 30, and I'm over the hill. My problem is compounded because I cannot relate to the people that I work with. They're nice enough, but they're shopping for minivans and starter homes. Just take this example: my boss (who is a solid four years younger than me) has not only never heard of the 9:30 club, she also met her husband-to-be at the Shark Club in Centreville. Needless to say, these people can't understand the aging rock and roll hipster vibe I'm trying to cultivate.

Of the people that I have met at my new job, I feel closest to my colleague Jessica. I've begun a campaign to try to convince her that, if I had it my way, I wouldn't be wearing Dockers and talking about public policy. I'd be wearing jeans and talking about public policy. She's not buying it. Can't say I blame her. I don't have much evidence to the contrary. That is, I didn't until last weekend.

A few Fridays ago your Washington Wizards defeated the Chicago Bulls at MCI Center, and boy did we get drunk at the game. Stumbling out of the arena with my best friend Ed, drunk with victory and full of seven dollar Budweisers, we decided to get another drink at a bar in the neighborhood before heading back uptown. Of course the bars were packed with fans, and we mostly wanted some space so we could talk about the game. We needed a bar that wasn't so crowded, where we could drink on the cheap and pat each other on the back for being such great fans. Unfortunately, the only bar that fit this description was Hooters.

We loved the irony. We loved the juxtaposition of two guys who just know they're too cool for Hooters surrounded by a bunch of guys that think Hooters is too cool for these two dorks that just walked in. We sit down, we order a beer, we laugh, and we have a good time. For ten minutes. Then it just gets depressing. Look, Hooters just sucks. I doubt I need to get into why. I had never been, but now I have. Hooters may as well be Studio 54 when you're a kid in the suburbs. Then you grow up and find out it's Ruby Tuesday in hotpants. Sigh. Nothing remarkable happened.

Until Monday morning.

I finally had a story about a crazy thing I did. I went to Hooters! People in the suburbs have heard of Hooters! It's almost like a strip club, only the women are wearing clothes and they've got buffalo wings! I couldn't wait to tell Jessica. I log on to our network and bring up our corporate instant messenger program. I pick out Jessica's name, and I send her this message:"I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do you think of that?"

Total and complete lack of response from Jessica.

This should have been a bombshell, this should have been instant punk rock credibility. See?! I'm whimsical! I can stare at half-naked 19 year old girls any time I want! But no, silence. I start to panic. Maybe Jessica works at Hooters? Maybe she had a bad Hooters experience? Wait a minute, what's a good Hooters experience? Anyway, something was amiss.

Then I take a closer look at the "To:" field.

FUCK! I sent this to the WRONG FUCKING JESSICA! This Jessica is a complete stranger. Their last names are remarkably similar, but they are indeed different. I'm new in the company, I want to make a good impression, I'm supposed to be the straight and narrow guy. The sweat comes in rivers. I re-read what I wrote. Dear God, I've just typed the creepiest pickup line in history: "I went to Hooter's this weekend, what do YOU think of that?" Insert smarmy glance and improper touching. Oh shit, I'm dead. I'm fired. I'm going to get sued for sexual harassment. I'm going to get blackballed. I'm going to have to move in with my mother and get registered as a sex offender.

While I'm acting out the final, miserable years of my destroyed life in my head, the Other Jessica still hasn't responded. I type a series of apologies. Still nothing. I confess to Real Jessica, who might be the first person in history to type "LMAO" while she is actually doing it. She tells me not to be embarassed- if anything she should be embarassed, because Other Jessica is going to think that Real Jessica is the kind of girl who thinks going to Hooters is hot. That's a fair point. But I'm not fucking embarassed, I'm paranoid! Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Still nothing from Other Jessica.

I have to do something. I have to head this off. I have to act proactively, swallow my pride, and just admit to being a fucktard. I can do this. I take deep breaths. I ask my boss (Mrs. Shark Club) if I can speak to her in private. She agrees. She looks concerned. I blush. I confess. She listens. She can't hold it any longer. She giggles. She laughs. She howls. "I already know Bryce, everyone knows. She didn't respond to you because she was telling everyone what an idiot you are. Don't worry, it's fine, she thinks it's kind of funny."

So now I endure Hooters jokes at work. I'm not sure if I prefer these to the square jokes, but they certainly take the attention off my Dockers.