Then I experienced a spiritual transformation and realized I could make money from writing party reports of a different genre. My LA Press Club party reports largely dropped off in the face of the bountiful financial and emotional rewards offered elsewhere.
Wednesday my dear friend Cathy implored me to bring back one of my vintage party reports, which I present to you now:
5pm. Play 40-minutes of basketball with three kids aged 5-11. Win five of six games.
5:40. Shower.
6pm. I'm clean and dressed. I figure my hour ahead this way:
* 20-minutes to get my van started.
* 20-minutes to drive to within two miles of the the party at the Friars Club on 9900 Santa Monica Blvd and find free parking.
* 20-minutes to walk remaining distance.
Then I feel a dread falling over me, a dread of arriving 45-minutes early to the party and looking needy, as though I have nothing better to do with my life than wait outside cool parties 45-minutes early.
Summoning a steely resolve I developed during my recent spiritual retreat, I force myself to diddle around on the computer and then lie down on the floor for 10-minutes.
6:20. I leave hovel and enter my van. I turn the key in the ignition only 15-times before the thing starts. A miracle. Starting only took two-minutes. Driving takes five. I park a half-mile away. I arrive outside the Friars Club at 6:30.
I see two hot girls. I feel afraid. I walk up and down the dark streets until 6:55. I dread there are going to be security guards with a list and my name is not going to be on it. But I am waved upstairs. There are two women at the bar. One I hear immediately is the girlfriend of Defamer, Mark Lisanti. She's hot. How come he's got a hot girl and I don't and he doesn't make anymore money than I do (I bet he makes no more than $2,000 a month from Defamer.com).
I feel like a girl-less childless dork impersonating an Orthodox Jew.
I look around for help and eventually take refuge in the mens room. I leisurely wash my hands with fancy soap like I am in the Venetian in Las Vegas. I return outside and spot Kevin Roderick and his usual friend at the bar. I order a Diet Coke and a glass of water. Only costs me a buck.
I walk to the couch and stare at the Laker vs Nuggets game for ten minutes until Matt Welch and Emmanuelle Richard (along with two dozen other people) arrive. I cling to them and Richard Rushfield.
Mickey Kaus arrives and introduces me to LA Daily News gossip columnist Elizabeth Sneed and her young pretty assistant Megan (circa 26yo).
I pull Megan aside and interrogate her for ten minutes. She does not run away screaming.
She says the Friars Club is primarily a comedy joint. She was here once before -- for her ex-boyfriend's wake. He died in a scuba diving accident.
"Did you off him?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
Emboldened by her openly-stated desire for a Coke, I offer to buy her one (mine had only cost me a buck). We make our way to the bar where we are ignored for ten minutes. When we are finally ready to order, Elizabeth comes over and takes Megan away to some cooler party.
I latch back on to Matt and look around the room. It's filled with beautiful young women. If I were to write a book about tonight's party, it would be called 52 Women I Want To Pork, but my rabbinically-ordered Depo-Provera has sapped my confidence. How can I hit on chicks when I only have a dollar to spend on each?
By 9pm, I am desperate. I force myself away from Matt and spend 20-minutes regaining my confidence by talking to two gay guys -- Boi from Troy and the charming, handsome and debonair Daniel Garcia, account executive for Gay WebMonkey magazine.
I pour out to Daniel my lack of confidence for my necessary task. I tell him I must leave him and go to the women. I grasp hard to my empty glass of water. Without it, I will have no props and my hands will be just stuck to my body, either flopping awkwardly or stuffed into my pants in some compromising position.
Daniel cruelly takes my glass, and then refuses to allow me to either fold my arms or insert my fists into my pockets as I sally forth on my Luke Ford Seeks A Wife mission-from-God.
I approach a group of 25-year old girls who all worked at the same entertainment management company last year.
I engage in a genuine conversation with the cute Indian who just finished a chick lit novel about an Indian girl in the entertainment industry looking for love along the 101 Freeway. Ten minutes in, she off-handedly mentions she has a boyfriend.
Due to inner strengthening at my recent Jewish retreat, this does not phase me. Rather, I glorify in my newfound ability to have a genuine conversation with a pretty woman without any ulterior desire to maneuver her onto my floor to look for chametz.
When the girls leave, I snag a ten-minute conversation with the drop-dead gorgeous KABC talkshow host Kim Serafin.
A noted writer comes over to whisk her away. I badger him about his career path. He says that when he sets his mind to something, he always accomplishes his goal. But he's very slow at it.
I leer and turn to Kim: "Some women like that."
They leave.
(Luke with Nick Denton.)
Cathy Seipp does the Rashi-like commentary to my party report.
NegroPlease blogs on the party.
BoifromTroy writes:
My biggest observation of the night was ho many women were at the Defamer party...and how many were beards. It's not that I think everyone's gay, it's just it seems in Hollywood, there are more of them than are willing to admit it... Speaking of which, if anyone knows who "Dan" was (not my Dan, but the shorter one with dark hair and the poofy baby blue vest), let me know.
