balloon-dude

By J.D. Oxblood

Through friends of friends I got on the guest list and passed by to check out the hubbub, bub. M2 is one of those Chelsea monstrosities that is everything you would expect—a long frickin’ walk from the subway, an enormous, cavernous room cut up by gargantuan furniture pieces guaranteeing that movement becomes impossible when the joint gets crowded and that no proper dance floor will ever erupt, grotesque hanging structures (in this case, faux-mirror balls constructed by crystals hung in sequence by 50-pound test) designed to remind you of the vertigo-inspiring height of the ceilings (nothing declares opulence in NYC like wasted space), louder than necessary, and a fantastic, state-of-the art lighting setup that is completely underused, like your grandma buying a Hummer and never taking it out of the driveway.

But let’s talk about the women. The staff were—like so many parties in this glamorous, whorish city—models decked out in corsets and fishnets holding silver trays with signature cocktails by the sponsor, Stoli. I liked the Orange Stoli with Snapple Iced Tea. I really liked the smokin’ blonde who handed it to me, was shocked to find myself attracted to a blonde (Helen Pontani is really a BRUNETTE, so shove it), was shocked that she actually had an ass, was even more shocked that she actually had a personality, and then, later in the evening, on spiked iced tea number 20, found out that she’s not actually a model. “I’m a dancer,” she said, “but they let me play with the models.” Sigh. She’s not vapid and insipid, but chances are she’s terrible in bed. Dancers—always better to love them from a distance and maintain the illusion of fantasy than to do the legwork only to be disappointed.

J.D., you’re just so sex-obsessed—what about the food? Pretty kick-ass, for glam-fest industrial fare. Round little crab cakes like encrusted meatballs, some tiny tart filled with BBQ chicken, mini shrimp tacos with cheese dipping sauce, and mini cheeseburgers, seriously not bad considering how annoyingly difficult it is to get a decent burger in this town (clearly the topic of a separate post. Someone remind me to do a piece on the great burger search—my results are quite different from that Regis Filbin shit on “How I Met Your Mother.”)

We exercised our V.I.P. wristbands to move upstairs to the V.I.P. section, which was occupied by sponsor people and felt anything but Important. There was yet another room beyond the so-called V.I.P. dispelling a steady breeze laced with the smell of weed, but I didn’t try to bribe my way in. Smacked of Indica, and I’m a Sativa kid.

The long drapes hanging from the ceiling were, indeed, set up for some circus. Two women performed a couple of drape acts—you know, twin drapes, the girl climbs up between them, wrapping herself in the fabric, striking poses, tying herself into knots and—if they’re good—executing dramatic falls. The upstage girl was ok, the downstage girl, who was trying to move to the music somewhat, seemed to struggle and was well behind her compatriot in the effort to perform a synchronized routine. I wasn’t blown away.

But they were less head-scratching than the dude in the checkered suit and the creepy mask. He came out with a king-sized balloon, blew it up, pulled it over his head and bopped it around, eventually climbing completely inside the balloon so that he could press his masked face against the rubber like an alien trying to burst through a distended belly. Just weird, man, just weird. A helper stuffed a vacuum into the balloon to send the confetti suspended with him swirling around, building slowly to the predictable finish—the balloon pops, pieces of paper everywhere. Kind of what happened to everyone who believed Bernie Madoff. It was so odd I was convinced the kid had to be Japanese—plus, he had no ass, so it was a safe bet. Which I lost. Took off his mask and was just a boring white guy. Two dollars to anyone who gets me his name so that I can interview him and ask the question: What the fuck?

The DJ, I have to admit, was not bad. He caught my attention after executing a flawless transition between “Electric Avenue” and Bob’s “Jammin,’” and managed to mix genres with a casual flair not often heard. House to rock to late 80s, and who doesn’t get their blood up when they hear Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison?” Anyone know who the DJ was?—they really should pass out programs at these things for lazy journalists.

Standing at the bar I got a smack on my ass and turned to see a good friend, Cameo.   He was bouncing off sheer adrenaline and working the room for a piece for HuffPo, pimping the publicists, and there were more publicists in the rapidly crowding room than anything else. NO NAMES, people, no one at this party you would have ever recognized. A lot of foreign filmmakers, a lot of geeky Indy peeps, and a few actresses, I guess, because there were a lot of rail-thin girls who kept turning down the mini burgers yet watching the waiters walk away with a hungry look. And the waiters weren’t really that cute, so you do the math. I asked Carmelo how he got the new sweet gig but he wouldn’t say, so I was forced to speculate. Kill someone? Bribe someone? Blow someone? I started thinking… all the people I could bribe wouldn’t need what little I could bribe them with. Anyone I wanted to kill would only get in the paper as a mugshot, not likely to get a byline. And blow? Damnit, why aren’t women more whorish when it comes to that shit? Seriously, a book deal is a book deal, right? And don’t women need head too? I remembered the delicious Ayesha Pande… the power to make my career and so hot I’d do her for free anyway.

Fuck, it’s fucking crowded in here, and sure enough, there’s no way to move through the crowd. Those iced tea drinks are snookering me—alcohol hidden in a diuretic, yikes. I should split before I start offering to blow publicists. Word on the street is they’re worse in bed than dancers.

Kiss kiss, JDX

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