After the Show Is the Afterparty
If anyone here is still interested in reading about our amazing adventures at Creativity Now (first dispatch here, probably to be updated with my extensive notations, because 99 was so busy doodling pictures of boobs with legs in his Rhodia notebook--very Philip Guston, I might add--that he missed a few things), let me give you a better rundown of the vaunted "afterparty," to which we were, for some stupid reason, invited.
The person known as les-francophile, who will probably lose his job because of us, was the one who got us on the list for both the conference and the party. And for this, to us, he is Christ-like, because we drank our weight in Champmagne (99: vodka and tonics) and ate our weight in miniature pulled-pork sandwiches and summer rolls. The funny thing is, when we arrived at the conference, we weren't actually on any of the lists. The pretty young women behind the check-in tables, all clad in peplum skirts or shorts (now I know what's fashionable this season) searched for our names to no avail. "Maybe we're on the press list?" I asked, trying not to giggle. "I'm really not sure. But [les-francophile] is the person who invited us."
"Oh, [les-francophile]? Of course! Here are your wristbands, go get a totebag."
So, we went to the first day of the conference. Then, after taking a 40-minute cab ride (see, I had the directions to the party somewhere in my phone, but 99 made the foolish decision of getting me high, and you know how when you're in high school and you're baked and you're trying to keep your shit together but you're convinced that everyone knows? Well, this cab driver sure as shit did. "Have we decided on a destination yet?" he asked. 99 replied, "Um, no, just keep circling.") we arrived at what was basically a warehouse on the far outskirts of Tribeca...with a velvet rope leading up to it.
Naturally, I hadn't changed my clothes, because I was running around like an asshole all afternoon, so while everyone else had abandoned their poplin peplum skirts for satin peplum skirts, I was still in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a hoodie. We had to get past two peplums with clipboards. "Um, we should be on the list..." "Who are you with?" they asked.
"[les-francophile]?"
"Ah, of course. Go right in."
Now, all day long I looked for [les-francophile], to thank him for his generosity, asking around for him and even emailing him. Nowhere to be found. I'm beginning to wonder if "[les-francophile]" is actually a code word for "we have large quantities of Bolivian cocaine."
The afterparty was held in a furniture showroom where everything in there looked like a bench, but we weren't allowed to sit on any of it. They were serving the Champagne in individual bottles with funny little wristbands on them so that you don't drop them. I had about seven of those, and some weird vodka drink with apple juice in it that reminded me of my babysitter when I was four. We didn't know anyone (this didn't stop us from approaching David Shrigley and David Cross, the latter of whom, by the way, seemed really bored and irritated. Not just by us. By everyone) so we stood as far away from the stereo speakers as possible and people watched.
Somewhere, on someone's camera, there are photos of us from this party. I think that this is because we looked like such slobs in comparison to the Peplum Army that everyone assumed we were somehow Important. They have already discovered this is not the case.
Did I mention how fucking loud the music was? There were two DJs, two turntables, and two iPods. Which two items do you suspect sat unused? Yeah, I know I have a hateboner for non-vinyl DJs, but when they finally plopped a record down, it was dusty and had a skip.
The line for the bathroom was so long that I sent 99 to go for drinks while I held our place. I watched two girls make out in front of me. (99: You missed out!) A seemingly interminable parade of girls went into the john, 2 by 2, stayed in for 45 or so minutes, then came back out. 99 returned with a tepid, but strong, vodka tonic. "They're out of ice."
This was a major bummer and evidence that we had to go. I finally made it into the bathroom. There was a clawfoot tub in there! That's why the peplums were taking so long--they were taking bubble baths. 99 was next. He came out. "I pissed in the tub."
And then we left.
The person known as les-francophile, who will probably lose his job because of us, was the one who got us on the list for both the conference and the party. And for this, to us, he is Christ-like, because we drank our weight in Champmagne (99: vodka and tonics) and ate our weight in miniature pulled-pork sandwiches and summer rolls. The funny thing is, when we arrived at the conference, we weren't actually on any of the lists. The pretty young women behind the check-in tables, all clad in peplum skirts or shorts (now I know what's fashionable this season) searched for our names to no avail. "Maybe we're on the press list?" I asked, trying not to giggle. "I'm really not sure. But [les-francophile] is the person who invited us."
"Oh, [les-francophile]? Of course! Here are your wristbands, go get a totebag."
So, we went to the first day of the conference. Then, after taking a 40-minute cab ride (see, I had the directions to the party somewhere in my phone, but 99 made the foolish decision of getting me high, and you know how when you're in high school and you're baked and you're trying to keep your shit together but you're convinced that everyone knows? Well, this cab driver sure as shit did. "Have we decided on a destination yet?" he asked. 99 replied, "Um, no, just keep circling.") we arrived at what was basically a warehouse on the far outskirts of Tribeca...with a velvet rope leading up to it.
Naturally, I hadn't changed my clothes, because I was running around like an asshole all afternoon, so while everyone else had abandoned their poplin peplum skirts for satin peplum skirts, I was still in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a hoodie. We had to get past two peplums with clipboards. "Um, we should be on the list..." "Who are you with?" they asked.
"[les-francophile]?"
"Ah, of course. Go right in."
Now, all day long I looked for [les-francophile], to thank him for his generosity, asking around for him and even emailing him. Nowhere to be found. I'm beginning to wonder if "[les-francophile]" is actually a code word for "we have large quantities of Bolivian cocaine."
The afterparty was held in a furniture showroom where everything in there looked like a bench, but we weren't allowed to sit on any of it. They were serving the Champagne in individual bottles with funny little wristbands on them so that you don't drop them. I had about seven of those, and some weird vodka drink with apple juice in it that reminded me of my babysitter when I was four. We didn't know anyone (this didn't stop us from approaching David Shrigley and David Cross, the latter of whom, by the way, seemed really bored and irritated. Not just by us. By everyone) so we stood as far away from the stereo speakers as possible and people watched.
Somewhere, on someone's camera, there are photos of us from this party. I think that this is because we looked like such slobs in comparison to the Peplum Army that everyone assumed we were somehow Important. They have already discovered this is not the case.
Did I mention how fucking loud the music was? There were two DJs, two turntables, and two iPods. Which two items do you suspect sat unused? Yeah, I know I have a hateboner for non-vinyl DJs, but when they finally plopped a record down, it was dusty and had a skip.
The line for the bathroom was so long that I sent 99 to go for drinks while I held our place. I watched two girls make out in front of me. (99: You missed out!) A seemingly interminable parade of girls went into the john, 2 by 2, stayed in for 45 or so minutes, then came back out. 99 returned with a tepid, but strong, vodka tonic. "They're out of ice."
This was a major bummer and evidence that we had to go. I finally made it into the bathroom. There was a clawfoot tub in there! That's why the peplums were taking so long--they were taking bubble baths. 99 was next. He came out. "I pissed in the tub."
And then we left.
Labels: Creativity Now
