As previously mentioned, we have a party in the works for this weekend at our fair apartment, The Gotham Sugar Shack. A bit more information about the event:

Junior-

I’m flattered that you want to have a party in my honor. I spoke to your father, and we agreed that you can have your friends over to our apartment. However, if you’re going to have a Mother’s Day gathering, there are a few rules that you must abide.

1) You can only serve milk drinks (alcoholic milk drinks are okay, but no grain alcohol, okay?). And remember to be a good host and make cookies, brownies and Rice Krispie treats. I’m sure your little friends will bring something too, assuming their mothers raised them right.

2) Tell your guests that for this party they ARE REQUIRED TO DRESS AS THEIR MOTHER. Your father and I are serious about this, Junior! And yes, this includes boys as well as girls. Brooms, dustpans, aprons and minivans are optional, but appreciated (your friends can be so messy!).

3) Remind your friends that because we love you so much, we’ll let them play in the “Womb Room.” If your friends ask what the Womb Room is, tell them: “The Womb Room is both a metaphysical ideal and an aesthetic construct; words can not properly describe the Womb Room. The Womb Room must be experienced.”

I trust that your party will be just as enjoyable as the one you had for Halloween, Junior. And yes, of course you can wear my dress for the night. Most importantly, Junior: as the host, it’s your duty to make sure nobody has sex in the shower.

And, don’t forget: if any of your friends don’t attend, it’s because they don’t really love their mothers.

Have a nice party!

Hugs & Kisses,

Mom

Again, if you haven’t received an invite, but would like to, certainly let me know.

“I want to give a really bad party. I mean it. I want to give a party where there’s a brawl and seductions and people going home with their feelings hurt and women passed out in the cabinet de toilette. You wait and see.”
– Dick Diver, in Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night

With six months passed since our Halloween throw-down, the inimitable Hell’s Kitchen Museum of Curious Deaths, we’ve decided it’s high time for another soiree. So, in honor of this year’s Mother’s Day, on Saturday, May 8th (Mother’s Day Eve), we’ll be holding The Mother of All Parties.

We had a bit of trouble copying the invite list across, so if you’ve been invited to parties past but haven’t yet received an Evite for this one, if you haven’t been invited to parties past but should have, or if we’ve never met but you suspect you could do Dick Diver proud with your contribution to such a party, certainly let me know.

As I staggered in the door of my apartment last night, my housemate Colin asked if I wanted to join him and the group of eight Swedish ballerinas who were for some reason drinking in our living room.

That would be a yes.

In the countdown to my close friend Bobby’s Sunday wedding, we this evening head out for his one last hurrah before the leash tightens. I cannot disclose the details of the planned events, bound as I am by the Bachelor Party Oath:

I (state your name) do solemnly swear that as a gentleman of the world I will respect and honor my brothers. I will not reveal the secrets of the evening. In taking this oath I understand that violating it will result in punishment that could include castration by way of a dirty, dull, knife. If asked about the happenings of the evening I shall reply:

“We ate pizza and watched porno movies. The groom got really drunk. His grandfather was there”

Still, I can say that I’m preemptively steeling my liver and throwing decency to the wind. Should be an interesting night.

The problem with starting drinking at 4:00 in the afternoon is that you wake up the next day at noon, with the words “slow deth” scrawled in sharpie across your knuckles, also fairly sure you walked a drunk blonde home, helped her put sheets on her bed, and left without even kissing her goodnight.

Though yesterday evening started out on a rather somber note, through the twin powers of heavy drinking and attractive women, I eventually forged my way back to near full-blown holiday spirit.

Specifically, I headed up to Columbia for a friend’s Champagne & Sinatra party, an event that works pretty much as the name would lead you to believe: champagne flows, Sinatra croons from the stereo, and everyone does their best to look and act Rat Pack chic.

As the hostess is a director, the crowd was overwhelmingly dominated by movie people, leading me to stray from my (rarely successfully adhered to anyhow) “no film girls” policy. I spent most of the evening flirting with a Danish writer so Nordically beautiful that (despite my advertised egotism) I kept wondering why she was possibly talking with me.

Still, by the time I left (in the wee small hours of the morning, as it were [my apologies to Old Blue Eyes for that pun]), I’d not only secured her number and a good-night kiss, but set up a date for later this week.

Spent last night drinking vodka with a few compatriots in the mischief-making cause, coming up with a truly brilliant prank to pull on our fair city. Not since my Porn n’ Chicken days have I had chance to plot benign chaos at such a large level, and I’m absolutely thrilled to get the project underway. Naturally, I could write about it here, but then I’d have to track you all down and kill you.

About two weeks back, I bought a Treo 600, a giant dorky combination phone/PDA. And, despite the hard time I’ve been getting about it from friends (Sarah Brown: “Ooooooh! A refrigerator phone!”), I’m a huge fan. On-the-go access to email, my address book and calendar, and Vindigo’s location services, all make my life immeasurably easier.

But the real bonus is, I now have a way for the drunk version of me to leave notes to my more sober self. This morning, for example, I awoke to find a task titled ‘Allison’ added to my to do list, with an attached note reading:

Hot, blonde Mt. Sinai med school student you met at John’s party. Call her: [phone number]. Also, sister’s name is Callie, sister’s roommate’s name is Dianna; you signed Dianna’s breast.

This is the sort of thing that leads me to completely swear off drinking, at least twice a week.

Last night at Lucky 13 with Hilary (on whom I totally have a crush) and Helen Jane:

“And I was like, there’s no way I’m eating a half a pound of pot – without a drink.”

Recipe for a very good night:
– One of the founders of Napster.
– Two Israeli girls he picked up the night before in Vegas.
– Wine.
– More wine.
– Very late dinner.
– Hard liquor.
– Even more Wine.
– The back seat of the Israeli girls’ rental car.