Yesterday I found myself the only girl in a room full of caveman-like boys, who intently watched the All Star game with beer in hand. Most were still in corporate attire, but ties had been loosened and shirts un-cuffed. I sort of felt like I was inside one of those National Geographic specials. I was the explorer in a cute tan outfit with a camouflage hardhat and a necklace of binoculars observing a watering hole of man beasts alone in their natural habitat. I thought I might get a sneak peak into the inner workings of the male mind and come out of the situation with the inside skinny on what guys talk about when they’re alone (How much they trash talk their girlfriends? What they’re really think about during your heart to heart talks? How to decipher the male grunt?).

Sadly, this didn’t happen. I had to prop my head up with pillows just to keep myself from passing out in boredom. All they talked about was their jobs, the economy, the stock market, the baseball game, the players’ stats and personal histories and this website called Where the Hell is Matt.

Zzzzzzz. Zzzzzzzzz.

So I started asking questions about game to keep myself awake like, “Why is that player so much larger than that player?” and “Why are they all wearing jerseys from different teams?” and screaming, “This is so confusing!” At which point the host locked me in his bedroom with his Guitar Hero so they could watch in peace. Anyway…this entire boy experience reminded me of an apartment party I attended a few weeks ago, a party pad I’ve titled, “Where Good Boys Go When They Die.”

Observe below, the ultimate, New York men’s entertainment loft. If this isn’t boy heaven, I don’t know what is:

Pool, foosball, plasma. (Yes, there’s darts in the corner as well)

Funky, old-style arcade games. Some as primitive as packman, others where you have to blow stuff up wearing a cool mask.

Three more plasma screens (watching all sporting events, in every time zone in the world, all at once, is a must). A pinball machine (The Sopranos, you even get to shoot the ball between Dr. Melfi’s legs) and another arcade game in which you hunt grizzly bears.

Beer on tap.

Beer with its own fridge.

Grub! Grub! Grub! Lot’s of grub! (And a plasma screen.)

[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.

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Carrie goes to some hip, joint-smoking couple’s baby shower and gets her insanely expensive shoes stolen? That’s the first thing I thought of when I entered a party this weekend and the front foyer looked like this:

The de-shoeing excuse the lame couple on Sex and the City gave had something to do with protecting their pristine offspring from New York’s street germs. Funny, because I’m sure when these children ventured into Central Park with their nanny they touched, licked and molested the urban landscape as if it were a candy cane.

At the party I was attending, our bachelor host didn’t have this concerned parent excuse. He also didn’t have hardwood floors, making everyone even more confused as to why our shoes had to be checked at the door as if they were a violent weapon.

What I found most interesting about the party that ensued (a lovely and successful party btw) was the subtle yet intense murmur of complaints steadily voiced by the females in attendance. Perhaps not surprisingly, New York women really don’t like to part with their shoes. Some put on a happy face while bitching below the radar about how without their suede heels, their outfit no longer “worked.” Others complained they felt inferior or “like midgets” without their stilettos. Many commiserated over how the entire situation was just kindergarten-style “unfair.” As one guest pointed out, “If our host can afford this apartment, can’t he afford to have someone come clean the floor?”

“Wow!” I thought. “This could get ugly!” But I resisted chanting “Fight! Fight!” like the people on WWE Wrestling.

I, for one, feel like I’ve suffered enough discomfort via footwear for one lifetime and therefore remain grateful for any opportunity to take my high heels off. The best comedy occurred at the end of the night when all the guests, now drunk on gin and bubbly, had to locate their shoes in this tangled, overflowing pile and somehow retain their balance long enough to put them back on. Many toppled over. Lot’s of shoulders were lent for support.

I experienced a mini panic attack when I couldn’t locate my gold strappy sandals in the shoe orgy. The impossibly frightening was happening: My life was a Sex and the City episode! Someone stole them!

I became especially enraged since I already had one pair of shoes mysteriously stolen at a house party in Brazil. Fortunately, after a little digging, I found my sandals suffocating under a pair of sneakers.

Crisis averted.

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

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.

It’s common fact that a house party is only as good as its bar. It’s also a common fact that your house party will continue as long as liquor in any form is present.

Mathematical equation: Party longevity is in direct correlation with your liquor stash.

The above photo is noteworthy because it represents the most stocked, complete, casual house party bar I’ve ever seen. Visualize that this is just a section of one table and that there were three tables at this shindig.

Let’s observe what makes whoever put this spread of debauchery together, the party guru version of Yoda:

1. Every kind of liquor known to humans is represented on this table: We’ve got wine for the boring people, beer for the relaxed people and over a dozen bottles of vodka for the “I like my drinks to have a 40% proof” people. The mixers are countless.

2. One of the key ingredients that help people enjoying getting drunk, limes and lemons, which are often forgotten about at house soirees, are omnipresent.

3. This host is also prepared for imminent disaster – note the paper towels at the centerfold of his buffet.

4. There is also a very high stack of plastic cups at the bottom left-hand corner of our photo.

You think running out of ice or mixers kills a party?

Running out of cups will assassinate it faster.

I learned this lesson the hard way when I threw a 150 person holiday party and therefore thought that around 150 blue and red plastic Duane Reade cups would be enough.

Newsflash: The average house partygoer in a lost stream of drinking, dancing, and dishevelment, goes through at least 3 cups a night. So take your party expectancy, add 40 party crashers for good measure, and multiply that number by 4 for safety, and that’s the minimum number of cups you’ll need to get.

Since I sensed the foreboding cup crisis early in the evening, I spent a chunk of the party running around with a sharpie writing names on people’s plastic glasses in the vain hope that they might reuse their cups. These kinds of tactics only work with intelligent beings like kindergarten students, not with festering, drunk, adult New Yorkers. This exercise was useless.

Later, things got desperate and I found myself above the sink like a scullery maid washing plastic drinking vessels. The whole point of plastic stuff is that you never, ever, should have to wash them. I did my best and pawned off the second time around Duane Reade glasses like a watch peddler in Chinatown. Yes, the sanitary police should come and shoot me.

Learn from this photo folks. It’s only a matter of time before you’re the stressed out host sending champagne SOSes and ordering innocent people on ice runs. Preparation is the key.