[Goa, LA]

Anyone living in a major metropolis is the often unwilling recipient of emails, texts, and spam from promoters whose job it is to get us out having a goodtime (and for men consequently, spending money.) Some promoter messages are polite and tasteful, others unrelentingly annoying, some comedic, and many, pure trash. This astonishing example of a promoter email invitation arrives all the way from Los Angeles. While I insisted the level of douchiness meant it had to be a joke, let me assure you it’s certifiably real.

[Redacted],

I’ve been far too busy working on my tan and

researching calf implant surgery to write you a
lengthy email today… so I will simply warn you
that tomorrow night at Goa (Friday) we are hosting
[redacted] Model Management’s 5th Anniversary Party,
and the only non-beautiful people to crack the
velvet ropes will be our busboys and even they
have IMDB rap sheets that when laid end to end
would cover Fabio’s man-breasts 16 times.

Let me know if you’d like to join us. There is no
list, simply ask for [redacted] at the door and tell
him I invited you. If you have been hitting the
gym and doing your teeth whitening sessions like
you are supposed to you will be ushered inside
with the speed of a bullet train as the onlookers
corraled on the wrong side of the rope eye-fuck
you in glorious envy.

P.S. If you are REALLY f**king cool and/or an
aspiring star f**ker you should also come to the
smaller, more intimate party I am now throwing
every Saturday night at a location I would rather
not mention here. Ask me about it if you are
ridiculously good looking…

One hopes this author, at least to a certain degree, is poking fun at himself and his lifestyle in a hyperbolic fashion intended to make his recipients laugh (we do truly hope, because I don’t know how safe I feel living in a world with real-life Ari Gold’s taking on promoter jobs, dictating prose like this without sarcasm.) If this LA promoter’s intention was self-mockery, I applaud him for the entertainment and putting the ridiculousness of Hollywood straightforwardly out there. This might be a more admirable approach than the often subtler East Coast promoters who are afraid to get blatant and say it like it is. East Coast promoter examples:

Promoter language: “Yeah, I guess your friend can come. Is she cute?”
Translation: I need models only, no exceptions.

Promoter language: “Not sure if I can get three guys in.”
Translation: If you’re not buying bottles, stop wasting my time.

I guess it’s up to each individual promoter to navigate disclosing the harsh cruelty of the nightlife world, while still convincing their guests to partake. Is extreme subtlety or tough love the best approach? I don’t know. What I do know is regardless of the fact that I rarely go to LA, I want to get on this promoter’s permanent mailing list.

Ah, the Hamptons (sigh). Home of the $13 bagel and $150 cab rides. If that’s not enough for you, hop into your convertible and take a cruise over to the only place perhaps hipper than South Hampton itself, Shelter Island’s Sunset Beach. Here social hour starts at around 4pm, getting rowdier and rowdier through sunset. After dark, it’s time for more $14 white peach cocktails and frolicking in the sand until the last ferry ride back to mainland reality at 1:15 AM.

The $25 price tag for a platter of carrot sticks isn’t the only thing that’s unbelievable about this place. Sunset Beach is like being transported to a European Riviera on a seven minute, as opposed to seven week, boat ride. You lounge and socialize at the café with strangers (European). You can even rent overpriced lounge chairs on the beach (European). And they even give you glass beverage containers and expensive-looking cutlery, despite that fact that you’re wearing a bikini (also European). The entire experience reminded me of La Huella, the seaside hotspot in Jose Ignacio near Punta del Este – the WASPY American version, of course.

The best news of all is that despite the fact nearly one-third of Shelter Island is owned by The Nature Conservancy and kept in a forever-wild state; its remaining 5,000 acres are big enough to host every single person you’ve ever partied with in Manhattan.

That’s right.

Make sure the sunscreen on your face is rubbed in, because I can guarantee you’ll be bumping elbows with people you never thought you’d see sober (let alone awake in daylight hours, and in swim attire). You might even discover many of your party animal acquaintances have (gasp!) children or (gasp!) wives. I’d recommend bringing shades to guise any bouts of shock that might scramble through your eyes as you run into faces you only thought you’d see distortedly on drunken nights at Kiss & Fly. I for example ran into:

1. A lovable womanizer I know from both Manhattan and Punta, who in a previous incident bit my nail off in a South American nightclub.

2. My philandering ex-boss from half a decade ago who owns New York clubs and restaurants. He used to have us organize his venue’s seating arrangements so he could go on dates while being out of eyesight of his pregnant girlfriend, who’d eat at the restaurant every night.

3. A former model who on previous occasions had threatened to kill me for speaking to her meal ticket, I mean boyfriend, who wasn’t only my co-worker but longtime friend (not to mention I wasn’t even single at the time…)

This unexpected treasure trove of old acquaintances had me sneaking out Sunset Beach café’s back exit, through the kitchen and past the staff porta-potties fugitive style. Nonetheless, not even a run-in with a girl who used to voicemail me death threats could put in dent in the natural beauty or serenity of this place.

As a summer party destination, it’s worth checking out for sure.

part 2 here

According to Long Island royalty, Hamptons clubs are strictly B-list since born-and-bred Hamptoners only attend private parties and tastefully catered charity events. My source divulged that real blue book natives even consider restaurants a step down, since frequenting one implies you don’t have a chef.

Our house party shindig involved a $3,500 alcohol delivery from the local store, shrimp skewers, insalata caprese, potato salad, steak, charred hot dogs and gourmet burgers (marinated in a French sauce before being grilled to perfection) for around sixty people. These BBQ socials tend to take place during the day. It’s therefore customary to take your guests out for a ride on your boat (located just down the lawn, on your private dock, of course).

The boys in our house had purchased a powerboat mere days before, meaning no one really knew how to use it yet. Our excursions so far had involved

1) ‘Christening’ i.e. swigging Crystal on the boat while it was parked at the dock

2) Driving the boat at full speed in reckless U-turns in a frightening adult version of Disney Land’s tea cup ride (yes, people were screaming ‘whee’ and getting splashed)

3) Trying to anchor on a nearby beach before realizing we didn’t have an anchor. One of our friends did hop on shore however to offer some of his Rose Brut to local crab fisherman

4) Boarding the boat the next day, launching off, and noticing that the battery was dead. While this was somewhat disappointing, no one really seemed to care. We fortuitously floated to our neighbors dock, tied up, and jovially left the boat at their house with no explanation, no note, and no concerns

5) Motoring over a sandbar, oops (the bay’s both shallow and confusing, especially while intoxicated) and making our motor sound like a grunting old man on his death bed

Despite these minor troubles, overall the toy was a huge success. Guests were taken for a ride in shifts as we played oh-so-mature water games like ‘drive directly into a nearby wave,’ ‘speed and halt,’ and ‘wipeout.’ I’m sure the locals in their canoes and kayaks really appreciated our wake.

A pleasant yet less active element of the house party involved (shocker!) actually getting to talk to people. It’s hard to assemble a meaningful conversation in the thumping madness of a club. In the Hamptons however, you don’t just meet up with your posse for drinks at 11 in the evening and put them in a cab at 3 AM. You live with your entourage, bonding on a much deeper level than you would in the city (example: “Who clogged the toilet in downstairs bathroom #3?” “Who farted in my bathrobe?”)
For me, the entire Hamptons experience and house party existed as a modern day version of The Other Boleyn Girl – a renaissance court in which the activity is the pursuit of leisure, pleasure and power.

Everyone’s trapped in a large estate or share house (much like the royal courts of France and England) with the intention of relaxing while simultaneously battling for the best living quarters, rooms, and beds. If you’re the guest in someone else’s home, the home’s owner in many ways assumes the role of king. The guests seek his permissions, whether it’s taking the new jet skis out for a spin or inviting five more people to sleep at the castle.

Socially, at least in the Hamptons, not that much has changed in past centuries. The men are just playing touch football instead of jousting, and the women are wearing bikinis instead of ball gowns.

Exactly one year ago, I voyaged to the Hamptons for the very first time. The experience was not…how to put it kindly…a positive.

After drinking and changing clothes, it was time to hit our first destination. Memorial Day weekend means the grand opening of most Hampton clubs. We arrived outside of an establishment called Dune after paying twenty dollars to self park our car in a weedy patch of sand. If that cost twenty I was afraid to know the cost of valet? Fifty? It was just midnight and the heard of people already outside Dune resembled this fall’s massive immigration march in New York City. After many uncomfortable moments in line, Scruff finally picked us out of the crowd. We then past a large Maxim ad where certain douchey individuals chose to pose and have their picture taken by some kind of fake paparazzi.

I bee-lined for the outdoor area. If I had wanted to be in a muggy indoor club I could’ve stayed in the city and gone to the bar below my apartment. While Pink’s music and ambiance was a definite improvement, the condition of the people mirrored Dune. I saw older women jumping erratically around the outdoor beds like chimpanzees and an attractive blonde hump a tree only to break into a full out striptease. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge supporter of drunken fun, but there’s a difference between a party and a shit-show.

The story ends with me taking a jitney back to NYC before my scheduled departure in an effort to save my soul. I’ve clearly learned nothing however, because now, one year later, I’m going to do it all over again.

Why?

Because this year I’m not a naïve outsider expecting backless evening gowns and elegant ocean side clubs. This year, I’ve mastered the game of the share house, the back up share house, and the back up-back up share house, and the sleeping bag. This year, I won’t be discovering. I’ll be aware and ready to pounce. This year, I won’t be expecting people to take care of me. I’ll be a resourceful superwomen with a premeditated plan. I’ve already negotiated 12 entrance and exit routes.

So with my fantasy Hamptons bubble already burst and the shock factor eliminated, will my feelings be as hostile as last year’s?

More about my exact plan of attack and its results coming soon…

I’ve been putting it off forever, but I guess I can’t really stake claim as a nightlife writer if I refuse to discuss the Hamptons.

Memorial Day weekend is the beginning of the H-Madness that will continue in an obnoxious frenzy until Labor Day. Why it’s fun to lug yourself to Long Island, share an air mattress with three other people in someone else’s share house basement and go to a windy beach with freezing water while massively hung-over is unclear. It just is. Right? Or Wrong?

Let’s examine some of the pros and cons.

Hamptons Pros

Swimming Pools (yes!)

Sun (yes!)

Hot tubs (yes! yes! yes!)

Feeling like you’re at adult summer camp (camper activities: drinking, sunning, hooking up)

Bonfires (warm)

Cheesy events (countless!)

Leisurely walks and bike rides (if you can see straight, if all you can see is champagne don’t leave the sauna)

Group bonding (how can you not bond when it’s ten to a bathroom?)

Hot parties (depending on your definition of hot, but the NYC clubs definitely lose some of their weekend vigor)

Celebrity sightings (if you care)

The beach (if you’re cool with un-Mediterranean water temperatures)

Hamptons Cons

Transport / traffic (a logistics nightmare)

Lodging (bring your sleeping bag and prepare to be molested in your sleep)

Driving (yeah, someone’s gotta be sober)

Distance (stuff is far apart!)

Outrageously expensive cabs (*%$#@?)

Outrageously expensive everything ($8 croissants!?)

Nutty, rich people (somehow they’re on worse behavior in rural areas)

Very drunk people (the vacation atmosphere encourages people to ‘let loose’)

Dependency on others to go places / get around (this is usually my deal breaker)

Ridiculous ostentatiousness

Weird cell phone coverage

The inability to escape the people you’re with

Stuff that I don’t know if it’s a Pro or Con

Seeing everyone you know from Manhattan in beach attire

Going to every club you’d go to in New York ‘the Hamptons’ version

Living with people you’d usually just party with

More after my voyage there this weekend…

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

This weekend I found myself in a club more crowded than Penn Station on a holiday weekend rush hour Friday. Yes, it was really that bad. My group of friends didn’t have a table to call home, making the entire evening even more uncomfortable (uncomfortable factors one and two were 1. That I was wearing a corset (bad fashion decision, don’t ask) and 2. That I was carrying a purse large enough to qualify as a suitcase (long day, don’t ask.))

In the mosh pit that was everywhere, one of my friends thrust herself toward me and said,

“Look at them. They are totally hookers.”

I turned around and saw she was referring to an undulating table of exponentially hot girls and notably gross men. I laughed her off. That wasn’t prostitution. That was just standard sicko New York clubs.

“No. No.” My girlfriend insisted. “This isn’t the typical modelizer - baby model thing. These girls are hookers.”

As if on cue, I noticed on old girlfriend of mine at the questionable table. I hadn’t seen her in years and while she’d changed hair style and color, she still looked great. If she was hanging around, clearly this table was legit. Last time I’d checked in with her she was pursuing her MBA. I squirmed through the club to talk to her and we exchanged hellos, news, and checked to see if we still had each other’s numbers. She then continued to dance on a banquette and I, in a body lock against the table and vicious crowd, stayed put for a moment to survey the dance floor and catch my breath. That’s when a beautiful nymph like creature, the Queen Bee of the table, grabbed my arm and whispered:

“You can’t stand here. This is a private table.”

“Oh OK,” I said quickly. “Sorry, I was just saying hi to [insert my friend’s name here].”

“This is a private table and these are my clients,” was her response.

I took all my strength not to clasp my hands over my mouth in muffled horror / laughter. She certainly wins the straightforward award. And oh no! Did she think I was trying to steal her clientele? This was a total misunderstanding. To her credit, I was wearing something that looked like a corset and carrying a bag that could, for all she knew, contain dominatrix gear.

Bad news.

I sprinted away and gushed to my friend, “You were right! They are hookers.” She gave me a victorious grin.

So this is what theoretically hot Manhattan clubs have been reduced to? Is this the curse of the overcrowded weekend? Or is this happening all the time and I remain naively unaware?

Once the nymph who’d forced me from her table saw how crowded the club truly was realized I wasn’t banging into her table by choice, she grabbed me again and whispered some sort of apology. “They just don’t like anyone here,” she explained.

“Right,” I thought. “Why would guys want women to hang around them for free when they could spend thousands?”

Nothing was really making sense and that was my cue to go home and watch the Lion King in an attempt to purify my mind from the insanity I’d just involuntarily been a part of.

My girlfriend who’d stayed on, reported that security had actually come over to the crazy table and asked everyone to step away. My girlfriend being a ballsy babe said straight to the security guy’s face, “You know they’re hookers, right?”

There was an extremely tense moment before the security guy grinned and burst out laughing.

“Yeah hunnie, I know,” he said. “But they spend six thousand dollars every time they come here, so we let ‘em do what they want.”

Huh. So I guess since Spitzer, being an escort isn’t even something you have to be on the DL about anymore. Label me ‘weirded out.’

Once you’ve lived in New York five years, you think you’ve seen the maximum douchiness this city has to offer. Alas, no. This past weekend at Upstairs a promoter who’ll I leave nameless thought it would be fun to toss stacks of single dollar bills into the air like confetti to swirl down around his table every time they purchased a bottle of champagne. This occurred not once, but twice.

Patrons were unsure whether to cheer, drop to their knees to pick up the stray cash like peasants, or shield their drinks from the down-pouring greenery. While I did appreciate feeling like I was momentarily in a Cameron Crowe movie, this kind of uncalled for ostentatious behavior is hard to justify. Now if they were throwing hundreds and which I could actually keep, that would be a different story.

*Note: As a dedicated journalist, I tried to capture this horrific nightlife moment on my camera. Come to find out, taking action photos of swirling cash in a dark club without warning is extremely challenging. Needless to say I failed, but the image remains forever imprinted on my brain.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com