Category Archives: party

Can’t Spell Confidence Without Con.

Jun

2010

amazing photoshop art by me.

Let’s say you know that you’re going to run into your ex at a party. We’re going to say this because my friend wanted me to write about what you would do in that situation. I don’t know why she thinks I would be the person to ask; if I ran into my ex at a party I would stand really, really still and hope that like the t-rex in Jurassic Park his sight was based solely on movement. Or I would take the Jeff Golblum approach and wave fire in his face. Either way, it’s not a healthy reaction. But OK.

Firstly, ask yourself if it’s really necessary to see your ex at this party. Does he owe you four dollars? Is that why you’re going? If so, I would stay home. Kiss that four dollars goodbye. It’s gone, forever. I know in these difficult economic times, four dollars sounds like a lot of money. But it’s just not worth it. If, however, your ex is still in possession of your priceless Picasso drawing, then yeah, maybe you should head over there. Once a guy invited me to his apartment to see his Warhol. But I don’t think it was a euphemism. He’s the kind of person who would have an original Warhol hanging in his apartment but no toilet paper.

I just want you to know that you’re a human being and as a human being you likely have enough stress in your life without adding a reunion with your ex to it. If, however, you feel that by avoiding him you’re only proving to yourself that you’re weak, then I’m not going to be able to talk you out of seeing him. So put on your best outfit and go! You’re going to want to wear what makes you feel the best. Who cares if that’s a black figure-hugging cocktail dress and it’s a pool party? If it’s something you can wear and rock the fuck out of, then everyone is going to think, “Damnit, why didn’t I think to wear a cocktail dress to this pool party? I look like a MORON in these board shorts!” It’s all about confidence.

But let’s say you don’t have any confidence. HERE’S HOW YOU FAKE IT:

Get really, really drunk. Get so drunk that you forget what day it is. Get so drunk that you would swear that that bald guy in the corner is Matthew Perry. Get so drunk that you have to google “walking” for a quick reminder of how it’s done.

Am I right or am I right?? WRONG. I’M NOT RIGHT. You shouldn’t have to get flaming drunk to handle this. If you do, then you’re not ready. If, however, you want to take half a glass of wine with you so you don’t do something weird with your hands, then go ahead. Now get into the bathroom and take a few deep breaths. I’m talking real deep breaths, like how they tell you to do in yoga. The kind I don’t do because I’m thinking, “This is boring, I just want abs.” But when you do that, and only focus on that, your heart rate will slow down. This is good. Then look in the mirror and tell yourself that you’re fine. This is just life. This is nothing you can’t handle. You’re going to be home soon with that box of girl scout cookies that is probably expired but who cares, you’re eating it for the children. Don’t say this out loud though, because if someone walks by, they might hear you talking to yourself, and shit will get awkward real fast.

Now what you’re going to want to do is get some positive reinforcement from your friends. Go up to your friend and make them laugh. If your friend isn’t around, call or text them. It helps to hear a friendly voice. It helps to hear encouragement and a laugh is the quickest way to that. If you say something that isn’t funny, tell them to laugh anyway. If they stare at you oddly, remind them of that time in San Diego when you helped them. That should shut them up.

Still not feeling confident? Think about Faye Dunaway. Bitch was always in control, even when she was working on a project that was doomed to fail (I’m talking Mommy Dearest of course.) But did The Dunaway slink off into the corner and cry about it? Fuck no! She straightened her shoulders and said, “Don’t fuck with me fellas — this isn’t my first time at the rodeo.” I always like to think about that when I need confidence. Mostly because it’s such a stupid thing to say that it makes me smile. It helps to have a sense of humor about yourself. And now, a completely out-of-context quote from Faye Dunaway’s autbiography, Looking For Gatsby:

Jack Nicholson is staring at me, his face in a barely contained rage. When Jack is angry, he gets very quiet. He is very quiet now, the words barely able to escape his lips as he tells me he doesn’t want to hear another lie. I’m shaken by the sense of menace that is in the air. I stumble over my words as I try to explain. Smack. My left cheek is stinging and there is a faint red mark left by his fingers. Smack. The force of the blow across my right cheek wrenches my neck. It has caught me off guard. I lose my footing and raise my arms to ward off the other blows I know will follow. Smack. Again and again he hits me. Within minutes I’m in a crying, crumpled heap on the couch.

This has been a completely-out-of-context quote from Faye Dunaway. You just have to remind yourself that there is no winning or losing. So many people want to play that game, where they can say, “Well his new girlfriend looks like Rodney Dangerfield so I clearly won!” But I think that by even playing that game you lose. You have to think that you’re above it. You automatically win just by seeing him and appearing in control and cool. I don’t mean cool like calm, I mean cool like, the Rat Pack or whoever the kids admire these days. You want to walk away with people thinking, “Wow, Evelyn is such a cool girl, I just love her.”

Above all, the easiest way to fake confidence is by keeping it brief. Don’t interact with him more than necessary. Realize how cool you are. Tell yourself that this moment will be over soon and that you can laugh about it later with your friends. And remind yourself why you’re not with this dork anymore. Then get the fuck out of there, because you’ve got important shit to do.

Difficult — Uffie

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Who Is In Charge Here?

Sep

2009

William Shakespeare once said, “Thank you for inviting me but what the fuck is this shit.”

I love a good party and maybe even a bad party but an awkward party is something that I cannot handle. If you are going to invite people into your home and serve them food and alcohol then you had better be a capable host. Hint: do not sneak off into your bedroom to get high. It just doesn’t make for the best kind of host. Unless you’re one of those people who actually functions better when high — oh right, that’s an Urban School Myth or some folklore shit — no one functions better when high.

We are adults. Some of us own houses. Some of us have real jobs, like touring with U2. I don’t have that job and frankly I think U2 sucks that and that you can sing “Where The Streets Have No Name” to every song of theirs, but you know, whatever. Good for you. It must be nice to humor Bono and make him feel like he’s still musically relevant.

You need to make sure that there is enough food for enough people and if you’re cooking you need to let people know when the food is ready. What kind of operation are you running here? Do you want people to forage through your garbage can for food? Is this Annie? Where’s Sandy? Is the sun going to come out tomorrow or are you going to fuck that up, too?

I appreciate that you took the time to introduce your guests, but then I think it’s rude to take their camera, take a picture of me, give them their camera back, and say, “This is for you to masturbate to later.” Maybe I’m just old fashioned.

You need to be graceful. If a guest makes a faux paus you should not point at it and laugh, you should sweep it under the rug. You want your guests to be comfortable. And you don’t want your guests to throw things at each other. Who the fuck is in charge here?

When did we go from dinner jackets and Emily Post to logo tees and Jackass? OK maybe Jackass is a bad example; is that show still even on? A few nights ago I went out to dinner and I saw some guy who looked like Johnny Knoxville but way older. And then I realized, holy shit, that is Johnny Knoxville. He gets old just like everyone else. But you don’t see him running around with fireworks up his nose, do you? No, he probably is busy throwing classy parties with his Jackass money. That is how you do things. That is how you take charge.

Have some decorum.

Treat Me Like Your Mother — The Dead Weather
I’ve Underestimated My Charm (Again) — Black Kids
The Prince Of Parties — Flight of the Conchords
Mama Told Me (Not To Come) — Three Dog Night

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The Promise of Parties.

Jul

2009

“I’ve finally learned not to do long, elaborate introductions [at parties] — the kind where you tell too much about a person so there’s nothing left for the other person to ask. It’s something most people already know, but I did it for years and it was awful. I’d say things like, ‘This is Jane and her father likes black men and her mother had a facelift and she just graduated from Brown and she goes to AA every day and she’s just the girl for you because she’ll boss you around and you like that.’ Instead you should say just enough to get people slightly interested. If, for example, a man likes fat women, say, ‘This is Tom, he’s a chubby chaser.’ Period. And that will get them talking, even if it’s only to deny it or say how rude you are.” — Andy Warhol, Andy Warhol’s Party Book

Ahhh there’s nothing like the anticipation for a weekend party. Who will you meet? What will you wear? Will there be food? Why doesn’t anyone ever have any good alcohol? I mean am I the only one who wants a goddamn martini at a party? Oh no thanks, the red plastic cup filled with red bull and vodka is a great substitute, really. I’ll just step outside. Oh wait I can’t, because there are like 25 people smoking out here. You guys are all going to have such gross wrinkles around your mouths. Granted, you do look really cool now though. Would I like one? Oh no I couldn’t possibly. Hell, OK. It’s a party! I’m sorry, what? No i was just planning on holding it, I don’t smoke. You…you want it back? Well I really don’t think that’s fair, you offered it to me. Fine, take it back, jerk.

Really though, I do love parties.

The best party I ever went to, I went alone. It seemed daunting at first, and I was awkward as hell. But I met some great people. And I didn’t have to worry about following someone else’s schedule. Parties would probably be more fun if people brought less people. Because then you wind up talking to your lame friends all night. If you’re going to do that, then just stay at home, and order a Pizone from Dominos. Do they still make those?

The best part about parties, if you’re a woman, usually winds up being the part where you’re getting ready for it. Unless you’re running late, then it’s hell. I always run late because I try on my entire closet before I leave. Then I call my friends and tell them I’m 20 minutes away. 20 minutes is a magical thing. It’s the perfect amount of time. No one will question it. When my friend, Abe, is running late, he tells the other person on the phone, “I’m parking.” And I’ll say, “Abe, we’re like, 20 minutes away, we’re nowhere close to parking.” And he says, “Trust me, no one will notice.” And he’s always right!

(From my Mad Men themed party. That’s actually Abe on the far left, next to me. I adore theme parties!!)

Going to a really nice bar and/or lounge is almost as good as going to a nice party, sometimes better. They usually play better music at hip bars/lounges than they do at your friend Greg’s house. And what’s the deal with Greg’s obsession with Boston? It’s like, dude, we all love “Saturday In The Park” and “More Than A Feeling” but they’re not the best party jams. OK, “More Than A Feeling” is actually a great party jam. The build up to, “I close my EEEEEEEYES and I slip AAAAWAAAAAAAYYYYY” oh damn I’m getting chills just typing it!

The worst party I ever went to was at a lovely girl’s house and it wasn’t her fault but my two dear friends BOTH had boyfriends/boy interests there and I was shut out so I went to talk to a cute boy who I knew through someone else, and he was in town for one night, and just as we were getting to the good stuff, the hostess’ PARENTS waltz in and HIJACK our conversation and leave me in the dust!! This is the problem with “cool parents”. It’s all fun and games when they supply you with weed and wine but when they start mingling and COCK BLOCK YOU that’s when they need to go into their room to watch a Tivo’d “Law and Order” with a glass of milk or some shit.

The Andy Warhol quote at the top made me realize that people have really let their party etiquette go to shit. No one really properly introduces people anymore. Usually people forget. I can’t count how many times I’ve been standing next to a friend who is carrying on a conversation with someone I never met. Usually I have to say, “Hi, I’m Almie” and then it’s just weird for everyone. Especially because they don’t catch my name the first time. And they’ll say, “Oh Amy?” And I’ll say, “No, Almie.” And they’ll say, “Is that short for something?” What the fuck would it be short for? Almanda? Please do me a favor and introduce your party guests to each other! Don’t think you’re too cool to do that. My dear friend Erika is very good with introducing people and I always have a good time at her parties. Coincidence? No, dear sir or madam, no.

Finally, no more Apples To Apples at parties. I hate that game. I always lose.

Party — Envelopes
More Than A Feeling — Boston
Let’s Face The Music And Dance — Ella Fitzgerald
Party Girl — Bernadette Carroll

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Where Has All The Glamour Gone?

Jul

2009

WHERE HAS ALL THE GLAMOUR GONE?

BB is horrified! Or she would be if she saw you ladies sashaying into Teddy’s in a goddamn pair of leggings. Look, leggings are fine if you’re working out or on your peroid, but if you’re going to have a night out, you better leave the leggings at home unless you are Karen O and you are performing. Night clubs in the 1950s and 60s used to be infused with glamour. I know this because I have a time machine, I built it out of empty fiber one boxes and starbucks cups, but that’s not important right now.

It’s the gentlemen who are really coming up short. Lads, cargo pants are great if you’re Indiana Jones. But since the chances of you being Indiana Jones are slim, I would opt for a pair of nice slacks.

Look at Serge Gainsbourg. HE’S LAUGHING AT YOU. HE’S LAUGHING THROUGH THE SMOKE. Gainsbourg is fuglier than those Muppet Old Guys, but he landed some of the most beautiful women ever made, and you know how he did that (aside from having insane talent and money)? He never dressed like a goddamn fish monger.

LOOK AT ANJELICA HOUSTON’S EYE MAKE-UP. FUCKING LOOK AT IT. That is extraordinary detail. Ladies don’t be afraid to falsify your lashood. It’s totally fine! The great thing about false eyelashes is that you don’t really need to wear any other makeup, if you want to be totally simple about it. Just fucking try it! You have nothing to lose! Your life could be completely different! Jumanji!

Faye Dunaway knows that the greater the lash, the greater the power. The power to stand completely still in a black turtleneck with your hands glued to your head.

Now what to wear?

The little black dress is always a classic because you can ever wear it on the beach!! There is nothing weird about this!! Scroll back up and look at BB’s LBD. They never fail. But listen, and please understand something:

THE AA DOUBLE NECK DRESS DOES NOT COUNT AS A LITTLE BLACK DRESS. NOT WHEN YOU’RE HAVING A GLAMOUROUS NIGHT OUT. And PS I spell “glamour” and “glamourous” with a u BECAUSE IT’S MORE GLAMOUROUS.

If you’re really going to put on the Ritz and valet park your car than you had better not be wearing that spandex dress UNLESS you have elevated it and taken it to a new level, one that only Molly Ringwald in that movie where she cuts up her dress, can take it. You better throw a fox stole and some diamonds on that shit and a bouffant had better be on your head. I’m sorry but that’s just the trade-off for wearing American Apparel on your big glamourous night out.

Don’t get me wrong, I think wearing jeans and AA is fantastic, but we’re talking about our big night here! We’re talking about Betty Draper and sidecars and Rockettes and Dean Martin and shit.

So now we’re ready to hit the town with a goddamn hockey stick! Some things:

Always talk to the hottest guy at the party/lounge/club. Don’t analyze the situation, just go for it. Remember, flat back, abs engaged. Walk right up to him, smile, and tell him your name. Tell him he looks familiar, but only if he maybe kind of sort of does, or he’ll call you on it. In which case you need a name ready. I found that the name “Tyler” works well; everybody seems to know a Tyler.

Decide what you want to drink before you hit the bar. The bartender does not want to play, “Ummm I think I want something, like, not too heavy, but like, fruity, or I don’t know, do you guys have any specials, or like, what beer do you have purple monkey dishwasher?” If you want the most bang for your buck (DON’T YOU JUST LOVE THAT 1950s AD SPEAK?) go with a martini. Most people think vodka martinis are sacrilege but I think that gin martinis taste like a doctor’s office so I stick with vodka. I also enjoy ordering a glass of champagne — it’s never good champagne, but you look amazing drinking it, and everybody wants one once they see you holding it.

And finally, just be amazing. Your parents will be so proud.

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Party Chat

Apr

2009

Last night was bizarre.

First of all, yesterday began with The Mad Men casting. I waited in a long ass line only to be told at the front of it that since I was not registered with central casting I needed to come back tomorrow. Oh hell naw. I called my mom and begged her to come by to give me my social security card which I needed for registration and the beautiful wonderful woman that she is, she drove out to Burbank to give it to me. (Yes I live with my parents, and No I don’t think that’s sad. But I am going to milk it until it gets sad.) So finally once I registered I had to wait in another long-ass line so I could be photographed so the casting people could look at my photo out of hundreds in their casting book and somehow pick from that my beautiful face.

I think I looked great. They have my number and they’re going to call it? Right? Right. I would give my left tit to be on Mad Men.

(Natalie Wood is so goddamn fantastic)

Because I spent the entire day at the casting I had to go straight from there to this party in Hwood that my dear friend Laura was invited to because she writes for Angelino magazine. I was her plus one! By the time I got there I had a massive headache because I realized only then that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast because of the casting. The party was hosted by Julianne Moore and was promoted by Soyjoy, who we soon found out, makes fucking disgusting soy protein bars. I needed food so I chowed that down as well as the microscopic hours’dourves that were circulating. I also threw back a small sour apple martini and chugged down 2 bottles of water.

We got to stand a few feet from Julianne Moore and holy fuck the woman is tiny. She’s maybe 5’4” and this is in heels. And she looks like a goddamn 20 year old. She’s gorgeous. (From the back though her elbows give her age away. But she’s still fucking gorgeous.)

By this time my head wouldn’t stop throbbing. Some sort of iron chef show was about to start, with Julianne Moore as one of the judges, so we went upstairs to watch. Along the way I ran into a lovely girl who was at the Mad Men casting so that was fun. LA is really very small.

We sat upstairs and in a few moments we realized that Amy Smart was sitting across from us with her publicist or something. She was wearing an absolutely hideous dress. It looked like a giant scarf. WTF.

And suddenly I began to feel quite nauseous.

I’m sitting there, feeling sick, my head throbbing when Laura says the most beautiful words: “This is dumb, I wanna go.”

So we left and then I realized, I need to get to the bathroom, now. I felt myself ready to vomit and I really didn’t feel like embarrassing myself. However the line to the bathroom was long so I said, “Fuck it, let’s go” and figured maybe I could force it down. Thankfully a beautiful man said, “Are you looking for more bathrooms? There’s some downstairs.” I could have hugged him, but instead, my stomach having heard the news, sent me on a mad dash to the restrooms.

I threw up the ritz cracker-sized turkey burger appetizer. I told Laura I was sick but that I was okay. So off we headed into the night.

As she was driving me to my car I realized that I needed some advil because my headache was even worse. And then I realized something horrible: I was going to be sick again. Thanks to Laura’s mad driving skills we made a screaming left turn into an alley near a 7-Eleven where a homeless man watched me vomit into the street while poor Laura, horrified, could only mutter, “Oh MY God.” I then went into the 7-Eleven to purchase advil, tums, and a loaf of white bread, since I remember hearing that bread was good for an upset stomach.

We drove to the parking lot where my car was, and sat. I could barely eat any bread and I have never wanted to be home so badly in all of my life. I could feel another wave of vomit rising so I convinced Laura that I was absolutely fine and was ready to drive home. She reluctantly drove away and as I watched her hybrid disappear into the night, a geyser of vomit erupted from my throat, sending me into fits of projectile vomiting in the bushes of a parking lot, splashing my dear Marc Jacobs pumps in the process.

However, after that, I felt much better, and got home without further incident.

I still have no idea what happened. I am not the sort of person who gets randomly sick like that. And I’ve fasted all day before, on Yom Kippur, and usually break the fast with champagne, so I don’t know what made last night any different. It was one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me, but it made me realize the truth in an old cliche:

Timing is everything.

Imagine if I had vomited at Julianne Moore’s party?

It would have been Far From Heaven and the last of my Boogie Nights, for after an incident like that, my name would be one of The Forgotten and I would be known as the Psycho who was ill.

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