Just a taste.
That said, I work for a magazine. I'm not telling you what kind, or the name, or anything like that. Names and reputations are at stake here, and I simply can't disclose too many specifics. But it's a totally hip magazine, and let's just say that my job affords me the opportunity to tag along to the occasional high-profile NYC event. Comic-Con: I'm there. Pepcom: I got invited. Craft Beer Festival: I sneaked in. If you don't know what these events are, Google them and you might get an idea of the kind of employer I have. You'll never guess who it is.
So the other night I was invited with some of the staff writers for my magazine to attend the launch party of T-Mobile's new phone, the G1. Sounds nerdy, yes, but guess what? The Raconteurs were playing, and someone told me Lindsay Lohan might be there. I'm down. Even though she [allegedly] switched teams.
So we get into the event, and already the warehouse-turned-party-spot reeks of swank. I can tell this right away because I see what I am later told is a "bag-slash-coat check." I begin to regret drinking all that NyQuil on the cab ride here.
Upon entering the actual party, I notice a few things. First and foremost, there's an open bar. Top shelf. No Mohawk vodka here. We get some drinks, and the bartenders are heavy-handed. I begin to carefully observe my surroundings.
There are beautiful people all over the place. Everywhere I look, there's one. And another. Dressed to the nines (not that I really know what that means). I discreetly yell an inquiry to my coworker Josh (named changed) as to what my chances are of getting with one of the gorgeous girls that seem to be flocking around every other good-looking guy here but me. I silently curse my judgment in wearing jean shorts that evening.
"Probably not that good, dude," Josh snorts. "A lot of these girls are hired models."
"Wait a second," I smoothly stutter. "So you're telling me that the primary responsibility of that chick...and that one...and th--ooh, not that one...and that one there is just to walk around and be hot?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
I finish my fourth Car Bomb. I need to get in on this. That's the world I want to live in, where I am hired expressly to walk around parties and just look sexy. Which I'm good at. I'll bet they have scouts here looking for new talent. Again I curse my jean shorts decision.
Then I see something I just can't wrap my head around. A short, skinny black man in a tweed suit is walking around, looking rather pompous (if you ask me) for being so short and wearing tweed. But that wasn't the incredible thing. Here is a grown man strutting around wearing glasses with black, jewel-studded frames that are roughly the size of bread and butter plates. This looks ridiculous enough, but upon closer inspection I find that said glasses have no lenses. None. He couldn't possibly think that these glasses are aiding his vision. No, as I cautiously guzzle my sixth Tanguray and tonic, it suddenly dawns on me that this man is wearing these hollowed-out dinner plates probably for the same reason he's wearing all that tweed. I need to know this reason. I'm intrigued. And his disgruntled-looking face tells me that he definitely thinks he's better than me.
Well, I'll be goddamned if that's true, sir.
"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?" Josh grabs my arm as I start to move in the direction of Sir Pompous the Third.
"What? Nothing, man. I'm just going to tell that dude how ridiculous he looks, that's all. With the glasses. Maybe challenge him to arm wrestling. Nothing big." I shrug.
"Arm wrest--you can't just do that, man!" Josh looks incredulous, for some reason.
"Why not?" I look incredulous right back. Only more so.
"That guy works for the New York Times, man!" Josh exclaims. "You can't just go and insult people you don't know at these things." I give Josh a wry smile that lets him know I am totally picking up what he's putting down, gingerly sipping my ninth Jack and Ginger and edging toward the small black man all the while.
"Dude, you need to chill out," he continues. "Now. I thought you came here with me to network. That's what these things are for, you know."
"Of course I came to network, Scarlet Josh-Hansen." I counter. "I'm networking right now."
"Well it looks like you're just drinking. Pretty heavily."
"I'm multitasking. You said he works for the Times, right? I've seen the Times. I'll go network with him. I have a great rapport with the bla--"
"I'm not letting you go over there, man," Josh shakes his head. "Let's just watch the band."
So we watch the band. My attention span wanders as I pick the orange slice out of my fourth Sex on the Beach and ogle all the supposedly-hired models meandering by.
Then it happens.
I'm enjoying my drink, watching the band, when I turn to Josh at the bar to say something decidedly misogynistic about the model behind the salmon and cream cheese appetizers. But as I turn my head, that's not Josh standing next to me. Not Josh at all.
It's Jason Biggs. Yes, American Pie Jason Biggs. Saving Silverman Jason Biggs. I don't know anything else he's been in. Maybe a Gap commercial here or there. He looks like he needs a haircut, I observe. And his pupils seem severely dilated.
This is my chance. My big, fat, networking chance! Who better to network with than a big famous actor at a trendy party while trendy music trendily plays in the background? Here we go, T. James, make some magic.
Me: "Hey, Jason Biggs!"
JB: "Uh, hey."
Me: "Hey, you know what would be cool, Jason Biggs?"
JB: "What's that?"
Me: "If we could totally clink glasses, Jason Biggs, that would be awesome."
JB: "OK."
We clink glasses. He turns back to someone he's with and disappears into the crowd. He briefly looks back at me with what I can only imagine to be admirable jealousy; he knows I'll be bigger than him someday. I quietly sigh and smile to myself. I did it. I networked with a famous dude.
I wake up the next morning naked and alone underneath my bed. But I smile to myself.
I'm on my way.
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