I hit the mediabistro Fishbowl LA party on Monday night (thanks again Adrienne). I had a good time, but I try to have a good time wherever I go. I think this party has been going on since 1990. Open bar, hot apps, too loud for conversation, can't find who you're looking for, and some folks just don't tip. The next day everyone goes on about who they ran into and how fabulous it all was.
I guess this is where I do the same. Let's see, I had a fabulous time. I mistook Joseph Mailander from Martini Republic for a regular I see all the time at Jumbo's. He swears it wasn't him, so I played along. Luke Ford is much cuter in person and is very polite. For the most part, everyone seemed very well-behaved and enjoyed themselves immensely. It was fabulous.
Well, there was this one guy. I think his name was Scott, and I think he was raised by wolves. His attractive friend introduced us and I asked, "How do you guys know each other?"
"How do we know each other?" he laughed.
Do I stutter? Are you just vamping until you can come up with a clever answer, or will you settle for not trite? "Yeah buddy, how do you two know each other?"
"Ha ha, how do we know each other?"
You know, not that important. Seeing as you're not the most gifted conversationalist, I thought I'd help you out and make you seem less like a fucktard. But no, ignore the life preserver and drown, but don't grab at me. I saw an exit, "Oh, there's that bitch who owes me money! Nice meeting you."
I've sucked up all the free booze a designated driver should have, so I hightail it out of there and hit the HMS Bounty to get the taste of the westside out of my mouth. It was chill, but it didn't do the trick, I needed to travel further eastward. So I headed downtown and found out from the taxi dancers at Club Fantasy how they work a room.