Nelly Furtado’s CD Release Party
Holly’s in Hollywood…
Let’s just start with the satisfaction I received from getting to cut to the front of the line, demurely asking, “Hi, I’m on the press list. Do I have to wait in this line?”
And even though the bouncer was expectedly non-plussed, it was enough for me that he let me and my plus two “entourage” inside. Yeah, cause clearly, this bitch rolls mad deep.
More on the Nelly Furtado CD Release Party (and more photos), after the jump.
Anywho, it was teeny-tiny inside and the DJ was in the middle, a little too exposed to the elements of overly zealous dancers, if you ask me. I just know that if I had to put up with, “Omigod, omigod! Can you play my song?” I’d require the kind of cage they make divers use when swimming with sharks.
For the dancers’ safety.
Not too exciting to start off, but that’s kind of how I like my Thursday nights. The closest we got to Nelly Furtado was a poster on the front door. Also, there wasn’t an open bar, but the drinks weren’t watered down, so it was all good.
The music was decent, except for a repeat of the Black-Eyed Peas “My Humps” once too often in less than an hour. So, we danced some and I enjoyed my secret lyric change to the Bangles’, “Our lips are sealed,” to, “My tits are free,” mostly cause I was one of few who would be able to chime in and not look like a bald-faced liar.
Then, not seeing the “Reserved” sign for the couch onto which I intended to plop my lazy ass, I was given the stink-eye by some random-looking tall dude in a polo shirt. He looked very offended, very white and very generic. When I figured out it was the little “VIP” area, I got up only to realize that it wasn’t even reserved for him, nor was he a bouncer. Just some judgy little partier, who looked like an 80′s high-school movie nemesis. Oh, boo to you, Jason or Kevin or Steve.
One of the other reserved booths held a couple who were basically dry-humping each other, of course. You can always tell how good the party is by how attractive this couple is. Here’s my estimation of these two:
HIM: the creepy, older guy who used to hang around the high-school track to watch the cheerleaders practice.
HER: the girl you remember from high-school only because she went to jail for leaving her baby in a dumpster at prom.
Admittedly, that doesn’t give much for you to work with visually, but it’s more a sense of who they are than anything else. Trust me, if you were there, you’d know.
So then, I got to see for whom the coveted couch I accidentally sat on was reserved. And let me tell you, I know this wasn’t supposed to be some A-, B- or even C-List party (I still held out hopes Kathy Griffin would show up and quantify the level of party I was attending), but to be squeezed out of the VIP section by a crew including a dude wearing a trucker hat and a “Vote for Pedro” T-shirt–well, that was just demeaning.
He and his posse looked like maybe they were distant cousins of the “Girls Gone Wild” guy, one of whom actually looked like he had been about to run out of the house on his way to the event in a trendy t-shirt and jeans, but decided it be best if he threw on his father’s enormous dinner jacket at the last minute–you know, in case the party was FANCY.
And then they started to attract some attention from a few skunk-highlighted ladies, who looked like the JV squad, if you know what I mean.
Eventually, there was, of course, dancing on the table. And that, my friends, was my cue to head out like a baby.
But you know what they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth, and I feel the same way about party invites. Just as Will Rogers never met a man he didn’t like, I rarely attend a soiree that disappoints, and this one was no exception. The booze was reasonably priced, the dancing enjoyable and the people-watching–classic.