Editor's Note: This was written during the hazy morning after the US Magazine One Year Anniversary party i ended up attending. You'd think last week's record review column would've cured me of my over-writing bug, but i guess it didn't. Anyway, enjoy. Also note that the pictures you'll see have nothing to do with that evenings events whatsoever; i just thought i'd include them, to spice up the page a little. Okie-doke ...

Dateline, March 16th: One of my duties at Pop-Up Video is to contribute to the US Magazine “Fashion Police” column, the one where many of comedy’s biggest and brightest stars, like the staff of Shecky.com, or that stand-up powerhouse/"bona fide hyphenate" Matt Weinhold, make fun of awful celebrity clothing choices. All five PUVwriters and our boss Woody have to take turns each week doing this ponderous column. We don’t get paid for it either, not that i know of anyway. As far as the glamorous world of comedy writing goes, it’s basically side work, sorta like the bus boy cutting lemons for the ice tea.

So, when you get invited to something as “special” as the US Magazine one year anniversary party, with the promise of free hooch and swell appetizers, well there’s your payment. Strangely, (or perhaps not, knowing my co-workers), no one else except Alan Cross, who’ll never turn down a chance to meet fashionable ladies, was too excited to go. I sure was excited, fueled with visions of stylish, vapid people, free top-, or at least middle-shelf, scotch, and trays with rolled up deli-meat and cheese cubes. And, it was the first night of my two-week vacation. I was ready to go for it. Plus, awash in extra invites, i was able to extend invitations to Robin and to my bandmates. Robin, naturally, dismissed it out of hand. Mishka, who’d just gotten back from Denver, and who i was looking forward to seeing (and to bringing to an event such as this one, for many reasons), was wrestling with a bout of bronchitis. Poor fellow. James and Jeff took me up on it, though, and they brought their girlfriends along. James was very excited to learn it was at a club called Hudson, some place in a new hotel on W 58th St. I’d never been there, or even heard of it, but he informed me it was pretty swank. Armed with this knowledge, i opted for a pair of black Dickies and a “vintage” button-down shirt i had worn for a third straight day. I didn’t shave either. Some fashion cop i am.

Naturally, i arrive at Whitney’s house to meet up w/everyone, and Jeff is wearing a $600 Donna Karan suit, and James is pretty spiffed up, too (although, note that Jeff had no idea how much his suit actually cost until it came up in conversation at the club). Always the slob, i am. Somehow, i didn’t really care.

So, from there it was off to the 7 train, although, it being drizzly out, and us being lazy, we decide to take Whitney’s car over the Pulaski bridge and park by the subway station, rather than suffer the 8 or 10 minute walk. Naturally, it took twice that long to find a parking spot.

But, before long we were on the train, and i briefed everyone on their new identities (as this party was RSVP, and the invites were ostensibly “non-transferable”). James was now “Paul Leo,” who in reality was the producer who first hired me to be a Pop-Up Video writer, and who’s retirement from that position the PUV staff had celebrated earlier that day (with me drinking roughly one pitcher of frozen margaritas by myself – so i had a head start on the night). James’ girlfriend Anne was now “Julie Klam.” Anne later told me she was very excited to be “Julie Klam” for an evening. Jeff was going to play the roll of beloved PUV writer “Mark Puner”, who Jeff inexplicably decided was going to be from Gloucester, Mass. for the evening … you know, “Mahk Pyoonah” … eerily close to the truth too. Whitney, hilariously, was “Robin van Maarth.”

We arrive at the club in the drizzle. There’s the ol’ velvet rope outside, and a big US banner hanging on a wall underneath an awning. There's a lot of photographers waiting outside the rope, at least 2 dozen, alongside the obligatory well-dressed women with clipboards and headsets. We give the women our names, and they’re all smiles. They’re sad that Mishka can’t join us this evening … the one person who, if he’d come along, would’ve gotten to use his real name. So, as we’re entering, a young black woman who i don’t recognize enters, and all the photographers start shooting. We’re told to wait until she passes, and this takes about 5 minutes. James recognizes her as being a late-late night talk show host, who’s also done some famous interviews. I have no idea who she is, but i imagine (later, i find, correctly) that she fills the “celebrity” quotient of this party. Kyle McLaughlin from Twin Peaks was there too, actually, although, still having never seen the show, i wouldn’t have recognized him either.

We’re at the club now, which is situated at the check-in floor of some fancy ass hotel. The place is about 2/3 full, there’s a DJ, things like that. The floor is lit-up from underneath, and there are benches and urns and candles in all the worst, most poorly-planned places. It was a nightmare to get around, and US Magazine people don’t seem to recognize the term “excuse me.” I personally was happy though to see some guy in a light blue long-sleeved t-shirt in the first minute i was there, so i no longer felt underdressed (although i still was). Actually, i was pretty happy about being underdressed at that point. Before long, we get drinks and settle down at a table in the corner, where we’d be for the next 4 hours or so.

It turns out being one of the “Fashion Police” is equivalent to at least D- and maybe C-level celebrity-hood in the US Magazine world. I met at least 6 or 7 people who came up to me, recognizing me from that column. A couple asked me to say something about what they were wearing, which made me very uncomfortable. In all honesty, i rarely notice people’s clothes, usually only when they look awkward or unnatural in them. Of course, this describes almost everyone who was at that party that evening, with their expensive, yet still cheap looking suits and complicated, unflattering dresses. James and Anne decided (probably correctly) that we were the best looking group in the room that night. It was also funny to see all the cocktail waitresses (who in their slinky black dresses all looked much more attractive than anyone they were serving cocktails to), emerge from the kitchen by our table, with their trays full of glasses of white wine, quickly put on their expressionless “fancy cocktail waitress” faces before heading out into the crowd. Jeff noticed that.

I also had someone recognize me as being a member of COVER ME BADD. That happens much, much more often than you would think. She's been a guest stand-up comic at the comedy show where CMB plays, and it turns out she’s another one of the “Fashion Police.” She was wearing a red hoodie and a t-shirt that said “Rock.” I thought that was a nice choice. She introduced me to some of her gaggle of friends, who were all very excited to find out what i do for a living. One was a 6-foot tall blonde aspiring stand-up comedienne who was stoked to “network” and try out some material (“That guy thinks he’s Richard Gere", etc. etc. etc.). This got old pretty fast, but fortunately, they wandered off before long to play pool.

Not long after that, i spied Pop-Up Video writer Alan Cross sitting at the bar, chatting up a pretty blonde girl. I wanted to very quickly say “hello,” but not distract him from his potential date. I walked over, and Alan, with a big grin said “hey Jens”, introduced me to the girl, and then introduced me to her drunk, flirty friend who was standing right next to me. And she started giving me the old “hey, wow, Pop-Up Video, i love that show” bit. She was very drunk, very talkative, and is someone 99% of the male population would classify as “hot,” myself being in that other 1%. She was wearing leather pants and a Jennifer-Lopez-style cleavage bearing shirt that went down to her navel that she was constantly adjusting. She had a very L.A. look about her, which made sense when 30 seconds into our conversation, she revealed that's where she's from. I told her i was going to L.A. in a coupla weeks, and asked her for some recommendations. She rattled off four clubs, two of which i remember the names of, Deep and Blue (anyone ever been to either of those places?). She made sure to advise me to tell the door guys that i’m a Pop-Up Video writer, as that sort of entertainment industry clout goes a long way there, much more so than being a day-trader. Not that that was her exact phrasing; she certainly didn't use the word “clout.” However, she did excitedly add that Deep is one of Carmen Electra's favorite clubs. Now there's a selling point. When she said that, too, i realized how much she looked like Carmen Electra. She also complimented me on my “fun” look that evening, which i initially took as a dis until she rubbed my arm with her icky fake fingernails. She was pretty drunk, mind you. I quickly excused myself.

Also, you know how every DJ plays a “rock block” in their set? Two or three rock songs to reel in the people who hate dance music. Well, last night it was a fraction of “Whole Lotta Love” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” pretty much the worst rock block i’ve ever heard at a party. At the Viacom Christmas party, they played “You Shook Me All Night Long” and “Rock the Casbah.” Now THERE was a party ...

At another point in the evening, i mistakenly wandered outside the “velvet rope” area, and had to go downstairs and back outside in the cold drizzle to get in. As i returned to where we first entered, without my jacket, and holding my scotch on the rocks, i saw two drably-dressed tourists, 2 guys in their mid-twenties, try to crash the party. What transpired went a little something like this:

Them to clipboard lady: “We’re here for the party”

“Which party?” she asks, while standing in front of a 7 foot tall red banner that reads “US Magazine One Year Anniversary.”

“Uh, this one…” one of them says diffidently, not noticing the banner at all.

“What are your names?” and they give her, presumably, their real names. “I don’t recognize those names” she said with a chuckle. “Where are you from?”

“Texas.” At this point, one of the guys had his American Express card out.

Now she was really laughing. “And what’s your company?” she asked, i think just to amuse herself.

“Merck.” Which is a chemical company.

“Uh, i’m sorry i don’t think you’ve got the right party” she says still smiling.

Then she looks over at me with my drink in my hand. “Go ahead" she says, waving me in.

Ha ha.

After Whitney had 5 of the 8 Cosmopolitans she vowed to have that evening, we decided to head over to Siberia Bar, in the 50th St. 1/9 Station, just to experience both ends of the bar spectrum. On the way over, James pointed out that drinks normally run between $9 and $12 a pop at Hudson, and we probably ran up what would’ve been a $600 bar tab. I’d at least give us $400, easily. Incidentally, there was no rolled up deli-meat or cheese cubes at the party. Rather, it was little toasted-bread-and-sundried-tomato goodies and fried green olives. The chocolates at the end were a nice touch.

Zachary Darling was attending a different party that evening.

Anyway, now we’re at Siberia Bar, which doesn’t make a mean Cosmopolitan, presumably. Nor do they have fried olives or cheese cubes. The odd thing to note about Siberia Bar is, apparently, they now have a “no swearing” policy. We laughed at first, right after Jeff said, loudly, “FUCK”, of course, but the door-guy nicely informed us it was for real. You have to realize just what a shithole Siberia is to fully comprehend the strangeness of this new edict. Maybe this explains why the place was 1/4th full that evening. Shoulda went to Jimmy’s Corner. Fuck.

At this point, having been either drinking or napping since 1 in the afternoon (and it was now 2 a.m.), i was running out of gas. I was at Siberia short enough to not hear the songs i put on the juke box, even though there was no one there, but long enough to accidentally knock some of Jeff’s scotch on his $600 suit, the same suit we vowed no one was going to spill a drink on that evening. Oops. I waved good bye and everyone told me they had a great time as i stumbled up the stairs to head to the 7 train.

I like Times Square that late at night, with all the bright lights but none of the tourists. So rather than conveniently take the 1 train to the 7, i decided to hoof it the 8 blocks or so down Broadway. At one point a car pulls up along the sidewalk. An attractive young black woman rolls down the window. “Hello” she says.

I look over. “Hi.” I notice the driver is an attractive white woman. There’s no one else in the car.

“Come closer” she says, and so i do, though maintaining a safe distance. She’s (once again with the clothes) wearing an extremely low-cut blouse and it doesn’t look like she has a bra on. This was the night for that sort of thing, i guess.

“Where are you going tonight?” she asks quietly.

Not being real sure how to answer, i merely say “Times Square.” Which was about a block away.

“Would you like some company?” she says, er, seductively.

As drunk as i was, i still remembered two important things. One, of course, is that i have a girlfriend. Two, i was in Times Square, and was probably being taken for some sort of sucka. So i just mumbled “Nah, thanks anyway” and resumed walking.

Irritated, she rolls up the window and they speed off.

So, after a short uneventful trip on the 7, i was back in Queens. I walked over to the bus stop to see if, by some quirk of fate, the bus was coming. At that time of night, it only runs once an hour, and the wait at that point was going to be at least 30 minutes. Dejectedly, i started walking over the bridge back into Greenpoint. It’s raining (why does it always rain harder in the outer boroughs?), and i do dread the walk a little bit. It is the middle of the night after all, and i am pretty much completely alone, so there’s at least a marginal sketch factor. Right after i start walking a cab slows down beside me. The driver rolls down his window, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m just going over the bridge” i say, and he waves for me to come in. I hop over the little concrete median that separates the walkway from the traffic lanes. It’s funny how i won’t get in a car with two hot broads but i will allow myself to be “solicited” by a Nigerian cab driver. He starts driving, but doesn’t turn on the fare box. 30 seconds later, we’re on the other side, at the light at Greene St.

“I’ll just get out here … do you want a coupla bucks?” All i had was a ten, and would’ve needed change, but i was more than willing to do it.

“No, that’s alright” he says with a deep voice. Yikes. A free ride from a cabbie.

“Wow, thanks, i appreciate it!” i said, closing the back door. “Have a good night.”

I did.