[Recent discovery: cigars and Schlitz beer are about equally bad.]

I have officially become the first rube in the history of the world to actually be surprised by a surprise birthday party.

Special thanks to my brother for masterminding the wonderful evening, to Tova, Joe, Colin and Yoav for helping him pull it off, to all of my friends who showed up, and to Mikhail Baryshnikov for walking in to Russian Samovar as we were all there drinking, shaking his head, and walking upstairs to get away from us.

Also, you know you’re already rather drunk when you stagger into a surprise party being thrown for you and initially think, “that’s funny, there are a lot of people I know in this bar tonight.”

6:00pm
Meet one of Cyan’s investment bankers down on Astor Place, chat about progress on raising our film fund.

6:30pm
Head to NYU’s Tisch School for panel on the business of film. Roll eyes frequently at moderator’s inane questions and panelists’ equally inane answers.

7:15pm
Skip out of panel early. Head down to Stellar Network event honoring Philip Seymour Hoffman. Drink several vodka sours at the open vodka bar. Talk with three different women who actually end conversations with ‘my people will talk to your people’ or ‘let’s do lunch’.

9:00pm
Head over to Serena (under the Chelsea Hotel) for drinks with Coro Fellow Ari Wallach, to discuss both a TV show he’s pulling together, and a network he’s building of young leaders interested in shaping broader culture by careful introduction of memes. Discover he’s having drinks later this week with Leah Katz, who bought me in a kissing rally when I was in tenth grade, and on whom I had a monster crush.

11:00pm
Join my brother and my cousin Jason at Otis, a bar around the corner from my house, for bad beer and even worse game of pool. Embarrass ourselves thoroughly by making much-too-loud snide comments about other patrons.

12:00pm
Head a few blocks up to underground bar Single Room Occupancy to meet up with my lovely friend Tova. Observe amusedly as Jason and my brother both try to put the moves on the bartender.

12:30pm
While outside talking on the phone, watch as the cops pull up in front of the bar, clearly thinking someone is throwing a monster party in their basement. “It’s a bar,” I shout to them. They ask the name and how long it’s been there, and, apparently satisfied by my slightly slurred answers, drive off.

2:00pm
Stagger home. Manage to insert key into door on only the third attempt. Someone seems to have quadrupled the number of stairs between the front door and my third floor apartment.

8:00am
Wake up for morning meeting, noting that my eyelids feel literally stuck together by the gummy still-drunkenness of my eyeballs. Hit the shower. Rinse, repeat.

A busy evening last night, involving three parties in succession, the last (and best) of which being Ms. Sarah Brown’s and Mr. Ryan Chittum’s joint birthday bash, the first party I’d attended since college that ended by being broken up by the cops.

Got my knuckles Sharpie-tattooed (again) by Sarah, this time reading “TALK SHIT”, and, feeling immensely honored to be one of the few to achieve two-time tattooing, I’ve now decided I have no choice but to shoot for eventually getting my knuckles similarly SB-defaced more times than anyone else. As the current leader, Erin Byrne, a.) a lives in Oklahoma, and b.) is a librarian, I’m totally ready to kick her ass.

The only downside to the plan is that, while other people apparently can wash their Sharpieing right off, I, possessing a special magnetism for people and ink, am left with tattoo remnants for a good two or three days. Which, frankly, makes for some excellent business-meeting conversation:

Big Investor: “Why does it say ‘Slow Deth’ on your knuckles?’

Me (sitting on hands): “Slow deth? [Nervous laughter] I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Six months back, following our Halloween party (the infamous Hell’s Kitchen Museum of Curious Deaths), one of my high school friends emailed to get the phone number of another guest, a documentary film producer who he had flirted with briefly at the party, and wanted to ask out.

I checked with her to see if she’d mind, then passed the number along. As I saw them both rather infrequently, and neither mentioned it again, I assumed that he’d perhaps not called, or that the date hadn’t really gone anywhere.

Still, last night, at the Mother of All Parties, I saw the two talking again. How cute, I thought. A second chance.

Not exactly. Apparently, the first chance had been more than enough, as the two weren’t meeting up again at this second party – they had come together. They’ve been dating since our first shindig, and are moving in with each other June 1st.

Parties here at the Gotham Sugar Shack: alcohol abuse and effective matchmaking, all rolled into one. Damn we’re good.

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.