last night, part 102,938,102,989,753,983

so i did something last night after work that heretofore i'd only seen on sex and the city, something that always seemed so ridiculously new york-y and impossible and oh-my-god-how-chic: i went to a party where your name had to be on a list to get in. well, ok, i went to a party where someone else's name was on a list but they took me as their plus-one. did i feel extremely fancy? yes, sir, i did.

the party was something that out magazine apparently throws every month to celebrate the release of their new issue. it was at some absurd multi-level club in chelsea called, um, guest house. or something. it didn't really look like a guest house, unless your guest house has a padded-leather ceiling with red chandeliers and 400 homos in sleeveless d&g shirts. i know mine does. oh, and the bathrooms at this guest house place were a model for all clubs: individual stalls with doors that go all the way down to the floor. now, i know that none of you out there are crohn's sufferers, but let's just say you notice things like this. and appreciate them.

i was absolutely convinced, standing in line with sam, that we'd get to the door and the man at the velvet rope (who, by the way, was wearing a black see-thru tee-shirt and had the perkiest yet largest nipples i've seen on a man) would be like, "hmm...nope, i don't see you on the list. NEXT!" but he wasn't. sam gave him his name and, miracle of miracles, he opened up that clicky thing on the rope. sam said, "me plus guest." i said, "i'd be guest." nipples didn't laugh.

basically, fancy party. the bar was open as long as you drank some sort of bacardi limon drink. now, i haven't really drank bacardi since the disastrous "let's see what happens when three people drink a handle of bacardi while nads-ing robert's chest" night my senior year of college. (remember that one, emily?) but when it's free, um, i'm gonna choke it down. and by choke i mean guzzle.

i met the editors of out magazine and was able to honestly tell them that i have a subscription. i talked to them about the new editor-in-chief and the direction of the magazine. then i met the man who apparently owns the whole damn thing: the advocate, out, all of it. he was very nice and his husband was extremely tan and wore shockingly white pants. best of all? when you start drinking at 7 and you're going home at 10:30, a little drunk, you get an awesome night's sleep.