While I often speak of living the dream, I never actually come out and explain the meaning behind it. There are many levels and perceptions to living the dream. For example, I’m enjoying my Bud Light pounder while my roommate watches Bring It On and I try to keep awake at 10:30 on a Thursday night. Considering how mentally and physically exhausted I am, this feels pretty damn good and I would consider it a level 1. Level 2 would consist of actually being socially responsive and switching over to hard liquor on my roof deck. Level 3 would encompass actually leaving the apartment, and so on and so forth. Last night would probably be a level 7, and I might even go so far as to give it a level 7.25.
Last night I attended Elle’s women in music party with Brittany, and we got to see how the other half lived. One of our bosses graciously got us on the list, and we were excited to go to a VIP party. I was probably more excited that it was sponsored by Belvedere, but it’s truly the simpler and more alcoholic things in life that make me happy. Actually, it’s pretty much vodka and teacup piglets that make me happy. And I will not rest until I own the latter.
Being female, one of our biggest problems was what to wear. Unfortunately all of my cocktail dresses are in the cedar closet back in MA, but I had my formal dress on hand that I worn at Drexel not but two weeks ago. Another predicament was a specific pair of heels remained in Philly, along with any remaining shreds of sanity and dignity that I had before the four hour open bar that was AEPI formal. I would like to say that night was my glorified and classy response to not winning sweetheart, but we all know that just isn’t true.
Anywho, I ended up wearing my pink and white polka dotted heels because my roommate gave me the okay, and off I went to Brittany’s apartment to catch a cab. Mind you the entire week had been gorgeous, with warm weather and sunny bright skies. That day the sky decided to open up just because it wanted to see me with a jew fro the one night I had to look somewhat decent. My “new” umbrella that I had (accidentally) switched out with my faulty one at dollar drink night in Philly was also failing me. Seconds before Brit and I hopped in a cab, I smashed it in a dumpster without the decency of a mourners kaddish.
When we arrived outside the Highline Ballroom, it was already packed with paparazzi and we saw people posing in front of an Elle backdrop. We got in line, relieved to finally get out of the rain. The bouncer then kindly told us we had to go to the back of the line, which was actually pretty long and located far away from the flashing camera bulbs. Incensed, we questioned the indignity of it all. Who the hell did they think we were, interns?
It was nice inside, and there was a stage in the foreground and two bars located on either side of a large open space. I had been concerned about my attire for the evening, but I was happy to find that the dress ranged from very fancy to the schmucks in jeans.
Being the culturally refined scholar that I am, when Brittany and I approached the bar I asked her if I should order her a drink as well, or start the night off double fisting. She gave me a dead pan stare, and it dawned on me I probably shouldn’t double fist in a venue like this. However, when I asked what she wanted the insta-reply was “rum and coke,” so we both suck.
We didn’t know anyone there, and weren’t in the mood to start introducing ourselves to people, so we were quite content to hang with each other and drink as heavily as humanly possible. After a while the crowd in front of the stage became less manageable, and after the first act we decided to try our luck upstairs. It was much less crowded, and there was another bar and couches to sit on. After securing ourselves yet another drink, we decided to sit on an empty couch next to a truly obnoxious couple and watch the magnificent Patti Labelle.
Seeing “Lady Marmalade” performed live is right next to “finish an entire jar of nutella in one sitting” on my bucket list, and I’m truly proud to say that I have accomplished both. Now all I really need to do is tell Robert Downey Jr. I love him before getting dragged away by security, and I may rest in peace.
The only distraction from Ms. Labelle’s stellar performance other than copious amounts of liquor was the aforementioned obnoxious couple. The man was tall and skinny, and wearing a green tartan suit with loafers. I thought such a suit only existed in some otherwordly dimension restricted to the Ralph Lauren catalog and British gigolo’s, but there he was in all of his plaid printed glory. He kept on momentarily making out with the woman he was seated next to, who was stylishly dressed in a black sequin jacket and had blonde short hair that I would kill or at least violently maim for.
I assumed that the guy was gay, and was drunk enough to casually make out with his straight friend who happened to be a girl. However, I found it odd that there were camera men positioned behind them kept speaking to them. I assumed they were yelling at the couple, because they were seated in front of the best angle of the stage, especially when the extremely drunk man started to head butt the camera man and play with his face.
The guy then turned his focus onto Brittany and I, and tried to hold some sort of belligerent conversation with us. I wasn’t anywhere near his level considering I have the tolerance of a pre-op Tara Reid, but I could get the gist of what he was saying.
After a few minutes of his incessant blathering, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to one of the cameramen to see what the hell this guys deal was. He then informed us that they filming the new season of “The City,” and that they were some of the new stars.
Because I apparently live under a rock, I'm not up on who's who on “The City,” but will never pass up a photo opportunity to piss off my peers back in West Philadelphia. Brittany and I immediately tapped him to get photos with us, which turned into some of the worst photography that I have ever seen. Regardless, they will be hitting the internet after fathers day when Brittany gets her camera cord from Jersey.
The next act was Kelis, and I wasn’t familiar with any of her work other than the milkshake song, which reminded me of every painfully awkward high school dance that I was forced to attend. Not even chugging waterbottles of raspberry Smirnoff in the parking lot could hide the shame that came with those tacky strobe lights, and the fact that I was taller than most of the people in there.
The bar shut down at the end of Kelis’ performance, and with that came our cue to go. We caught a cab back to Hell’s Kitchen, and during the ride we planned our post midnight snack. I came home to an empty cupboard because I fail in the grocery shopping department, and ended up eating my pre-packed lunch for work while yelling at my roommate not to judge me. I took her silence as disapproval, but still gave her my copy of Elle from the party because I am nothing if but a saint.
The Elle party was definitely an amazing experience, and one that I am truly grateful to have gone to. I honestly love New York and all it has to offer, and will do my best to return after my Senior year.
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