I could from my car see a fat man in a Hawaiin shirt with tickets in his hand, standing at the corner near House Of Blues. I pulled up and he waved before asking me if I was there for the Get Up Kids show.
“No. Private party,” I said.
“Oh, well, I’m scalping,” he replied.
“Ooooh,” I said, trying to make it look like I in no way thought he was the valet and that I just stopped because he seemed a friendly fellow.
“You gotta go down there, they’ll really ticket your ASS if you park up here!” he warned, pointing down the hill to the House Of Blues parking lot.
I dropped off my car, was fitted with a wristband and directed to an elevator that took me to the building’s private party level and quickly found my group in the House Of Blues’ extravagant Buddha Room.
Right away, chadmichaelward introduced me to his wife, daniwhiterabbit. This was very significant because in all the time Chad and I have known each other and in spite of the numerous occasions I’d been to their home, I’d never met Danielle. Constantly “missing each other” had become a conspicuous pattern to both Dani and myself, and we’d independently suspected that the other was an elaborate fiction existing only in Chad’s mind, a la Fight Club.
“I know this… because Andy knows this.”
The room was populated only with society’s best. It’s not often that you find yourself at a party where you really like EVERYBODY. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, challenge-drinking Adios Motherfuckers and talking comics and Star Wars®. Quite surprisingly, it turned out that one guest, David, was like myself a Boston refugee and had shopped at the same comic store I did and around the same time. It didn’t take long for either of us to observe what a relentless miser that store’s proprietor was, lovable and even heroic as he was otherwise.
“Two fucking years and not ONE discount!!”
The only downside to the evening was the slow realization that this whole bathroom-attendant industry is a total racket. Most nights, I don’t need to use the bathroom at all until I return to my underground lair, but for some reason (poison, I suspect) I had to go three or four times at House Of Blues. I didn’t mind tipping the gentlemen the first time, as he was alarmingly quick with the paper towels. Questionable as this specific job may be, I am usually happy to reward exceptional vigilance in almost any circumstance.
But when I returned a second time, not only was I forced to endure the drunken ravings of the club’s less sophisticated occupants (“Duuuuude, why are you making out with the FAT CHICK???” God, I hate sexism), but the attendant went totally limp on me! I was standing there at the sink with dripping wet hands for, like, three or four seconds before he finally got up off his lazy ass and pulled a few towels out of the dispenser to my immediate right and handed them to me. Fucking hell, right? The man’s performance became even less enthusiastic as the night progressed and I refused to continue my tipping. Take that, peasant!
The ladies in attendance were all what I like to call FIIIIIIIIINE but, alas, all spoken for. You’d think that people in Chad and Dani’s positions — that is, being glamour photographers and thusly acquainted with a number of MODELS— could find ONE single girl in ALL of Los Angeles and invite her to their party, if only to see me strike out royally. Sigh.
No matter, though, because I had my Mentos® on me and was able to secure secret rendezvous appointments with each lady hahaha as well as this dude Chris who just said such sweet things about fucking me until my pelvis was completely obliterated, I couldn’t help but go home with him at the end of the night.