Painting Town Red, Dancing All Night, and Other Cliches You'd Kill to Live Out
Wednesday night at ad:tech totally kicked Tuesday night's ass.
It started pretty innocuously. I met up with Ana Yoerg, whom I haven't seen since last year, and we hit the W to bootleg internet and do work. Turns out Return Path was having a party there, so we sat on a couch like square bears with our Macbook Pros and tried to avoid the aerodynamic alcohol beverages.
Every once in awhile I'd look up and meet eyes with a well-dressed waiter, whose only function was to hold up a sign that said "Return Path."
After that we packed up our gear and hit Kiptronic, a decent balcony fete at a venue that reminded me of somebody's bachelor pad. I think the bathroom fumes got me high. That's also where we started drinking, because you know, if you haven't got jack to do, you drink to belong.
At which point Ana and I split up. She hit another party and I went home to change my clothes, but what really happened was I got to my hotel, peeled off the stuff that didn't feel welded to my flesh, and fell across the bed contemplating oblivion.
I was half asleep when Steve shook me out of it with a text demanding my attendance at Old Timer's. So I got dressed and walked the two blocks down to Vessel. Steve and Jolie O'Dell were sitting in the back. We were joined shortly by Brad, who engaged Jolie in a surprisingly detailed discussion about vintage cars.
The party transitioned slowly from Old Timer's to Hydra. And suddenly I was staring at the ass of some girl in cowboy chaps, who'd leaped onto a nearby table and begun to wiggle.
"What do you think that dance is even called?" Steve asked.
"I don't know," I said, but I COULDN'T. LOOK. AWAY.
Jolie and Brad jetted. Daniel Riveong quickly replaced them. "Steve, I have a question for you," he said, looking shy. "How raw can we be on the ad:tech blog?"
Uh-oh, I thought. He's not diggin' it.
"As raw as you like!" Steve said brightly. "As long as you're constructive."
Then I spaced out.
Ana texted because she wanted to meet up. Steve and I debated the merits of going to Le Colonial or The Rubicon Party.
"Let's just go to Rubicon," I said. I was feeling sleepy and impatient and Rubicon seemed like a last-stoppish kinda place. We could hit it and GTFO.
We cabbed it. The line to Rubicon was long and I felt like I was in college again, waiting to get into a hype club. We made it and headed straight to the loo. A woman was sitting on a chair talking on her cell phone and waiting to hand me paper towels in exchange for a tip.
It made me uncomfortable so I quickly left that place and slammed right into a security guard, who stopped and begged to know what my ethnicity was, which I totally HATE, then he kissed my cheek and told me to "come back later."
Yeah, I'll make the effort to squeeze the bathroom in an hour from now.
Straight to VIP. Pretty dull. Went back down and considered getting on the dance floor. My decision was cinched by yet another douchey dude, who came up to ask why a girl like me looked so sad in a room full of people.
"I'm thinking on the Christ," I snapped, to which he responded, "Ooh, an intelligent one!" and then I pictured gutting him with a dull blade.
"No really, what are you thinking?" he asked, so I told him I'm considering going to dance.
"BY YOURSELF?" he gasped. "Noooo. I'll believe it when I see it."
"Let's put money on it," I said. I am uniquely talented at cashing in on party bets.
It was his turn to sneer. "Yeah, sure," he said. "I'll give you a dollar if you can dance out there for at least two songs."
Being the dope-ass chick I am, I hit the floor with an exaggerated swagger. House of Pain started to play. So retro. And then I danced my ass off ALL -- NIGHT -- LONG.
Things went as expected on the carnival floor. I danced by myself for awhile, then a bunch of Asians sucked me into their stratosphere and it was hella over. Jeera Lert, a deejay, cat-of-all-trades and project manager at Split Second Technologies, kept me in moves all night. His buddy Bryan Davis from Sega kept me in drinks.
And then something awesome happened. Ana arrived, hit the dance floor with Steve and it's like the decibels of cool went up 486 notches. There were gyrations and wiggles and jumps and slams and grinds. It was the most fun I've EVER had at an ad:tech party.
We weren't without rest. Ana and I stepped out for a few minutes to soberly discuss the carnal art of casual grinding.
We also didn't lack for setbacks. Ana scrubbed the floor with her ass once, and I spilled a whole glass of vodka down my dress, which was pretty much already falling apart around me. It was like bad soft porn.
Also, the Rubicon's introduction of fondue snacks to the dance floor made everything smell like rancid jock feet. When I find the consultant who keeps recommending fondue to sweaty dance parties, I'm going to force him/her to apologize ... with a fondue-filled paintball gun.
Every once in awhile the crowd parted to make way for a couple of female acrobats in ripped fishnet stockings. They were dope. If I had those kind of skills, I'd go on tour with the clowns and bearded women. I have always had a soft spot for the circus.
We kept at it until 2 AM and I could hardly sleep. What with the rap, oldies and the bounce-worthy rock, each spin of the table was like getting an adrenaline injection. Steve, Ana and I vowed to try duplicating the fun tonight, but I doubt we can. The bar is set too high.
I woke up this morning with achy feet, a strange collection of small cuts and scratches and a strong vodka reek. It was kind of like being a crack whore, except with better pyjamas. Oh, and I think Bryan stole Steve's camera for about an hour and took some really crappy pictures of me. I'm sitting here trying to work out how I can extract them without losing the appearance of casual apathy.
Note: The images in this post were populated by Steve Hall and taken with a Nikon D60, courtesy of Nikon. It rocks and we can't go back to life with a crappy Casio Exilim.
UPDATE: All the fun and lascivious insanity for the day is now on Flickr.