January 24, 2004
And since that's out of the way, let's get to the big goings-on around town! As some of you may already know (given that 98% of the readers of this here blog were in attendance), there was yet another Big Apple Blogger Bash last night, organized by the always-helpful Z-list bloggers P-Frank and M-Dub. The event was scheduled for some fancy-pants Chelsea joint, and I had planned to arrive fashionably late after dinner, with the smokin'-and-Fun-Dip-snackin' Jahna D'Lish on one arm and the exactly-equally-smokin'-yet-slightly-more-health-conscious Juliette Aiyana on the other.
Well, by the time the three of us showed up it turns out that the bar had thrown the party out! Yes, this fine bunch of bloggers were made to feel as welcome as a gang of Harley-riding lepers at a Shreveport quilting bee, with proprietor Richie Von Richierich and head bartender Snooty McShunnyshun essentially saying "Dozens of heavy drinkers throwing their money around like shore-leave sailors the day before the invasion? For heaven's sake, why would we want that?" "We'll see you in hell...deeks!" was collectively bellowed by us as we headed 25 or so blocks north for a return trip to the far-more inviting Siberia Bar, which we cannot recommend highly enough. And let us never speak of the (let the Googlebomb commence!) worst bar in New York again!
Unfortunately I wasn't able to get the names of everybody I met last night as there was trouble with the nametag technology, if by "nametag technology" I mean "lots of people, including myself, refusing to wear them." Anyway, among the people whose personalities broke through my whiskey-fueled haze were the lovely Caren Lissner, who it turns out not only puts on clothes pretty much every day but also actually attended the other, rival high school in my hometown at the same time, and who went to college with several friends from my youth. Unfortunately, Caren left the party before I had a chance to say goodbye or she was able to hear Duran Duran's "Rio," both minor tragedies. I didn't really talk too long with HipHop Libertarian Cal Ullmann, since I was pretty busy with Mike Wolf talking shit about the other attendees, but he seemed really nice and I'm sure we would have had a fine conversation if I wasn't an asshole. It's always a little thrill to stand near Belle of No Apologies, who I think was making her BABB-debut. I will say that if you're not familiar with Maker's Mark I wouldn't necessarily recommend ordering a shot just because you don't want to hang with Belle looking like a wuss. That is some throat-scraping harshness, lemme tell you. Fortunately, I then tricked Mike Wolf into drinking a shot as well, and boy, did we all have a good laugh over that one! I helped Stephanie Klein remember Tim Teufel's name, which I certainly wasn't expecting to do. And...um...the other nice people whose names I didn't get. I could describe them physically, but I don't see how that would really help anybody. They were all nice.
As for the BABB regulars, the orbital center of the party was, of course, Brian the 646 Guy, who, just to get the quote right, is dancing even when he's standing still, and when he's actually dancing, it's like he's dancing twice. His cock-blocking tendencies aside, Brian is about as fine a guy as you'd ever hope to meet. I was glad to spend some time with Paul Katcher, if only to have the chance to explain that I wasn't a Mets fan. I mean, for Pete's sake, a Mets fan? Sheesh. Meanwhile, there's no better hat/grin combination in all of blogging than the still-angry Nick Marsala and if there's a better hugger in the NYC area than Ravenwolf, please send her over to Jersey City. It's great to hear that Allan Baruz was able to pay off his gambling debts and that his thumbs have healed. Zeebah is always a bright ray of sunshine in the middle of a dive bar, and it's always a delight to see the woman behind this fine new blog.
And speaking of two of the finest people on the planet, Jim and Jane Galt, the evening ended as it usually does, with my being accused by a woman at the bar of staring at her cleavage. She wasn't particularly angry about it, just curious, and I explained that I wasn't actually staring at her cleavage but was rather struck by the odd stance she had taken, it turns out to get a better view of Jane Galt. And to me, that's what the BABB is all about, since honestly who among us hasn't at one point been in one of those three situations: either being a woman standing in an awkward position while staring at Jane Galt, being accused of staring at a woman's cleavage when you're actually just struck by her awkward stance, or actually being Jane Galt?
See you all next time.
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