Category Archives: The People’s Party

Where the hell am I?

Tomorrow I leave to visit Utah for the first time, as I was asked by several Mormons to be an Ignite speaker about “anything that you’re passionate about.  Your choice.”  Most people are already cringing at the terrible repercussions of letting me speak about anything I want, but when I told them I wanted to have a live drill for the zombie apocalypse they were all, “Huh.  Rock on”.  Also, I sent them my power point presentation, which includes phrases like “Knock-knock, motherfucker”, and they didn’t even blink.  Because Mormons are awesome.  Unless you ask them to mix you a drink, which they will totally fuck up because they are terrible bartenders.  Anyway, my point is that I will be at Evo ’11 for most of this week and if you’re going to be there too (and are good at shuffling and moaning) you should let me know.

PS.  I’m also co-hosting the 5th annual People’s Party at Blogher this year.  As always, I will be hiding in the bathroom the entire time, as my anxiety disorder has never actually allowed me to attend any of the parties I’ve hosted.  This is not an exaggeration.  Also, I think I’m supposed to be writing a post about this but I’m way too irresponsible to do that.  I’d feel worse about that but it’s fairly obvious that I’m not responsible enough to be expected to follow the rules.

BlogHer 11 Parties

PPS.  The bad-ass Mormons hosting Evo ’11 are the same ones who were there when I was crowned Czar by the Mayor, and who were unfazed when I was attacked by a feral baby on stage.  They totally know what they’re getting into. Probably.  Either way, it should make for an interesting post when I get back.

Dear New York Airport: Maybe next time you could have us land in a pit of vipers that are also on fire. Just to keep things new.

Last week I was at the Blogher conference and it’s too complicated to write about so instead I’m just going to re-write the notes I jotted in my journal while I was there because I’m really tired and I believe in phoning it in.  Also, if this is the first time you’re reading me you should skip this post and read the one before it or just find a less offensive blog.

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I’m not allowed on a plane unchaperoned so I spent the night at Chookooloonks‘ (aka Karen) house where I was serenaded with live ukulele music and we exchanged stories of passing out in ditches.  Then I went to wash my hair but I forgot to bring shampoo so I used her “Uncle Funky’s Daughter Shampoo For Kinky Curly Hair” which is not really made for white girls but when I came out of the bathroom I told Karen that it was awesome because I felt very multi-cultural and also now I know what it feels like to be black.  Except without all the history and repression.  Then my hair dried and it looked exactly the same as before, which was disappointing but I’m pretty sure I was changed inside forever, like the day you lose your virginity except better because no cops came and it didn’t happen in a truck.  Then Karen gave me the “Girl, you are not right” look which looks a lot like the “Girl, you need a sandwich” face and so I agreed because either way she was right and I really wanted a sandwich.

It's basically this look but with more raised eyebrow.

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Landed in LaGuardia airport.  Hey, you know what would be a good idea?  If you didn’t put the runway on a pier IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING OCEAN.  Or if maybe the captain came on and said something like “Oh, by the way, it’s about to look like we’re crashing into the water but at the last second the runway will appear and we’ve never had any giant squid reach out their tentacles to grab us even though we look EXACTLY LIKE A FISHING LURE SKIMMING THE SURFACE.  No worries.  Stop crying, girl in row 8.”  That would have been helpful.  But it didn’t happen, probably because they totally had been grabbed by a squid tentacle before and now they can’t legally make that disclaimer and then I may have hyperventilated a little and then Karen gave me that look again which was weird because I totally wasn’t in the mood for a sandwich and she’s usually very intuitive about that sort of thing.

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I’ve been in New York for one hour and already I’m being detained by the NYPD.  Apparently it’s illegal to get a pedicab the way we did which was by stabbing the people about to get in the cab and then forcing the cab driver to commit robberies for us.  Kidding.  Actually we were just standing in an illegal place to hail a cab and so we got pulled over directly in front of a hotel full of bloggers.  I tweeted that if you looked outside the hotel right now you could see Laura and I being detained for 20 minutes by the NYPD but no one did, probably because everyone inside was too busy doing opium and pulling used kidneys out of murdered hookers.  Way to pick your battles, NYPD.  Also, last time I was out of town with Laura we almost got arrested as well so I blame her.  It’s pretty much the worst tradition ever.

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My friend Grace just asked me how many drink tickets I got.  I have no idea what she’s talking about.  She pulled out the perforated badge sheet that should have had drink tickets printed on it and it was entirely blank. Awesome. Blogher thinks I’m an alcoholic.

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Went to the Social Luxe party and got snubbed by everyone I’ve ever met.  Except that I’m almost sure that it was just because I looked so different in my phony-tail.  Or maybe they’re just assholes.  Probably the first one.  Then I won the “Funniest Blog” award and when I went on stage everyone was all “Huh” and that’s kind of what I thought too.  Then I think I got fitted for lingerie but I’m not sure if that was part of the party or if I was just being molested so I just went with it.  And that’s basically how Blogher is.  Also, FYI?  The award is a glass paperweight and if you go through security with it on the way home they will assume you have a bomb and they will bring out security and then when they finally pull it out and read it they’ll say “What’s a blog?” and that’s how you know you’re in the real world again.

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Called Victor to tell him I won an award.

Victor:  Awesome.  I already have a trophy for you at home.

me:  Is it “World’s Greatest Grampa”?

Victor:  I scratched out the “Grampa”.

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Hosted the annual People’s Party with a bottle of screw-top wine that I stole from the mini-bar.  As usual, I went to the actual party for 1.9 minutes then spent the entire rest of the night hiding in the bathroom.  It was a lot like a normal party except that people make you wear their shoes so they can swallow them and someone makes an art installation of play-doh on the sink but you don’t even notice it because a group of girls dressed in full Girl Genius costume just came to pour drinks.  The bathrooms of Blogher are a lot like Burning Man, but with slightly less nudity.

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Back in the hotel room.  Just stuck my head out of the bathroom to clarify to my roomate that I’m using an electric toothbrush in here and not a vibrator.  She looked less relieved than I expected.  This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people after 10 PM.

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Part two comes tomorrow.  I need a nap.

Free booze.

Dear internets, it’s once again time for my mandatory Blogher post.  I’ll make it short, I swear.

If you aren’t going to the Blogher conference, no worries.  I spend most of my time hiding in my room or in a public bathroom so technically you could just hide in your bedroom at home and simulate the whole thing.  Except that to make it a true experience you need to share one bed with several other girls and you have to pretend that you’re always happy and that you never have to poop.  That’s basically the whole conference.  Plus booze.  Also, my roomie Laura and I were comparing all of the private parties that we didn’t get invited to and we decided that we would host an imaginary private party so that when you see people tweeting about some awesome party you weren’t invited to you can make them jealous with your own personal party tweets and we will totally back you up.  If you claim to see me throwing flaming furniture out of a hotel room inexplicably filled with rare Brazilian lizards I won’t deny it because that’s pretty much exactly the kind of thing you expect to see at #vaginapalooza10.  You’ve just been invited.  No vagina necessary.

If you are at Blogher then come find me because I spend most of my time alone in bathrooms.  I’m co-hosting the People’s Party again this year but as usual I probably won’t see the inside of the party and will most likely be in a bathroom outside of the party hanging out with the irresponsible people who didn’t RSVP on time.  On Friday I’m doing “performance art” at the Kirtsy party and popping into the Serenity Suite when I get too overwhelmed.  Then Saturday I’m speaking about when it’s okay to lie (summary: It’s not) and then Saturday night I’ll be at the Volstead and at the SexIs party at the Warwick.  (Both of those are totally open to non-blogher attendees, btw.   No RSVP necessary.  Just come if you want.)  As always, I will be a mess and cannot be held responsible for anything that I say or do and I apologize in advance for whatever ill-advised thing I convince you to do.  Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.

Also, every year I wear a confidence wig (or two) because I’m scared of people and it helps me pretend that I’m someone else but this year my friend Karen insisted that I need to stop wearing confidence wigs because I need to just be myself with my own bad hair but I’m pretty sure she’s just saying that because she’s never had bad hair but I’m taking her advice and this year I’m making a compromise.

CONFIDENCE PONYTAIL.

Baby-steps, y’all.

PS.  I just did spell-check and it told me that “Blogher” isn’t a real word but that “#vaginapalooza10” totally was.  Awesome.  Spellcheck’s totally coming to the party.

Comment of the day: In order to compensate for not being a cool BlogHer type lady I’m going to spend the weekend pooping as much as I possibly can. ~ Erica

This is where you should begin. Unless you aren’t going to Blogher this year. Then just ignore me.

If you’ve read this blog for more than a year then you can probably guess what this is all about.  Follow the breadcrumbs, y’all…

Next stop?  Click here.

Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is real and I have witnesses

So this weekend at the Blogher conference I co-hosted the People’s Party and it was very nice because everyone there had to apologize for accusing me of making up Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) because SHE FUCKING CAME.  This is where you should go read all the “Nancy W. Kappes is not my personal Tyler Durden” posts if you are already lost because this is about to get confusing even for me and if you don’t know the background you’re fucked and should probably just skip this and instead just read about the time I scared Blair from “Facts of Life.

So Nancy shows up at Blogher carrying a big bottle of water which was actually straight vodka and carrying pictures of her kids, grandkids, and a trucker hat she’d had made for me.

Me, Nancy, hats.

Me, Nancy, hats.

Also, she brought her “Judy Garland Trailmix” and dumped it out on the bed so I could have first pick, which was very generous and ladylike, and I didn’t actually have any of them because I’d been drinking but she made me a doggie bag and called me a bitch, but in a really nice way.

Nancy's Judy-Garland-Trailmix

This is totally for real, y'all

Then she started yelling about what tiny crap-hole hotel room me and my roomie were staying in and insisted we go to her giant suite across town but I reminded her that I was supposed to be hosting a party in a few minutes but then everything got kind of fuzzy and I can only assume she slipped me a roofie or I got a contact high from standing too close.  At one point she got lost and I was hiding in the bathroom having a serious conversation with a bunch of chicks and I can’t remember what it was about but I think it was about how someone’s pet llama had cancer or something  and then Nancy walks in and I can’t see her but I can tell it’s her because she’s all “OUT OF MAH WAY, BITCHES!” and then she sees me on the bathroom counter and waves offhandedly at me and then she kicked open the door to a stall and is all “Move, bitches!  I gotta take a piss”.  Then everyone in the bathroom got all quiet and kind of looked at each other all shocked like “What the fuck just happened?” and I’m all “By the way?  That? Is Nancy W. Kappes, y’all” and they’re all “NANCY W. KAPPES PARALEGAL?!” and I’m all “Totally” in kind of a smug, I-fucking-told-you-she-was-real sort of way and everyone got all wide-eyed like they’d just seen the ghost of Ringo Starr and then Nancy walks out of the stall and pulls out her trail-mix bottle and is all “Alright, line up, bitches! Who needs dope?” and some chick is like “Uh…you’re selling us pot?” and Nancy looks at her with aghast pity and is all “No, honey.  POT IS FOR FUCKING AMATEURS” and that’s when I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere.   Then I got pulled away to meet the sponsors and I told Nancy to stay there because our sponsors were pretty kid-friendly and I felt a little concerned about the people I left behind in the bathroom but then 10 minutes later they had formed like a giant Nancy-entourage and were following her everywhere and it was obvious that they were genuinely won over by her awesomeness because not enough time had passed for whatever pills she gave them to have kicked in yet.   Then I look over and see Nina from The Goodnight Show on PBS and she’s dressed in her signature pajamas and it was cool but very weird.  It was like if you threw a dinner party and suddenly you looked over and Captain Kangaroo was there.  Back when he was alive, I mean.  Not the decaying corpse of Captain Kangaroo.  That would be even more fucked up.  Then I look behind me and Nancy is assaulting our Crocs sponsor but he actually seems quite delighted about it and that’s when I was very glad that I hadn’t taken any of the pills she gave me yet because the whole thing was so surreal I would have suspected it was some sort of weird drug hallucination.

About 2am Nancy left for her hotel and I was kind of concerned that she wouldn’t make it back safely but she pulled out a card that already had her name, and the address of her hotel printed on it and pinned it to her shirt.  On the bottom of it was a phone number explicitly “for bail”.  True story.

nancy1

Then she winked at me and placed her finger on the side of her nose and it was kind of like when Santa Clause goes up the chimney in that poem except I think maybe she was gesturing that she was going to snort something in the bathroom first.  Then she left and my roommate was all “Dude.  What…the fuck…just happened?” and I’m all “I have no idea.  But I think maybe it was awesome”.  And she’s all “Yeah.  I think it actually was awesome”.  And then we passed out.  The end.

PS.  Also, I asked PBS’s Nina to sign my boobs and she refused and then scampered off like a frightened bunny.  I totally forgot that even happened until now because of all the other shit that was going on.  That’s kind of the sign of a good party.  Or a terrible one.  Probably both.

PPS.  For real, y’all.  I’m not making this up:

Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

Comment of the day: Here’s my Nancy story: met her in the bathroom, exchanged some exchanges, we chatted with the housekeeper who was getting off soon. Nancy rooted for a few bills and graciously tipped the housekeeper, who then left. Seconds later, someone broke a glass in the bathroom. I had to fetch the housekeeper, who seemed more than happy to come back. I think Nancy is psychic and knew that was going to happen and pre-tipped. To ensure promptness. Nancy is the new Chuck Norris. ~ Deb on the Rocks

There was almost a serial killer at our party. Like, at least one. But there were like 800 people there so statistically there could have been more. I don’t really know serial killer statistics.

Remember how last post I mentioned that Chris Mann was coming to perform at the People’s Party tonight and that it would probably be awkward because I once accidentally told him that he reminded me of a serial killer?  Honestly, he’s like identical to Sylar from Heroes ,who actually is a serial killer, or possibly might not be any more since I stopped watching after season one.  But basically to me they are the exact same person and I’m shocked that I’m the first one to bring this up because of all the evidence.:

sylar1 chris 1

sylar1 chris 2

sylar3 chris3

sylar4

chris4

sylar1 chris 1

Moral: If you’re going to be a musician you should make sure there’s not a serial killer out there that looks like you, or maybe kill him before he gets popular. The serial killer that is. No one is advocating killing Chris Mann because honestly when you ask a famous musician if you can take a picture of them licking your head so you can post about how much they remind you of a serial killer and they’re all “Oh.  Yeah, of course” it’s a sign that they are completely awesome or totally high.  Possibly both.

PS. Contrary to popular belief, Nancy W. Kappes (Paralegal) was totally at the People’s Party and was not imaginary.  More to come.

Comment of the day: LISTEN, JENNY, I am NOT making this shit up, but I saw Idina Menzel in concert in Louisville and Chris Mann opened for her, and while we were all waiting for Idina to come out at the end, Chris Mann came out and chitchatted and was really awesome. (The story gets better, I promise.) And then he was chitchatting with my friends, and I said something innucuous like, “Do you want me to take a picture?” and Chris Mann turns to me and goes, “Did you just say ‘Big Black Whores’?” NO CHRIS MANN, I DID NOT, NOT EVEN CLOSE, and you don’t even know me well enough to know that I MIGHT say something like that. BUT I DIDN’T. Where did that come from Chris Mann? WHERE?!?!

PS. He was (is, I’m sure) a really delightful performer though. Just slightly hard of hearing. ~ emmysuh