Hello, Earthlings! I have returned after being ill for the past week. I’m still not at 100%, but can at least sit at my computer without succumbing to vertigo and mistaking my iTunes for an episode of Battlestar Gallactica.
It’s all the fault of the 2009 Emmy Awards. Yes it is! I’ll explain…
The boyfriend and I were (again) invited to attend the HBO Emmy Award after-party. As he considered which of his designer suits to don, I sifted through the post-punk, vintage mess that is my wardrobe, desperately trying to Frankenstein something passable to wear, grateful that most people at industry parties are too self-absorbed to notice me at all.
Once we got there we took our place in line in the underground garage that served as a holding tank for men and women dressed to the nines. (Front entrance was limited to red-carpet types.) Cramped into lines of two and everyone decked-out fancy, it looked as though we were about to be slaughtered in the most glamorous concentration camp ever.
We made it in.
Now, there’s a reason why I love going to the HBO after-party. Normally, I would eschew going to industry parties in favor of getting my fingernails torn out or having bedtimes stories read to me by Carol Channing. The HBO party is an exception to this rule because it is kind of awesome.
First off, the design is always impressive. Every year is themed. This year's theme was less obvious but no less magical. If I had to guess, it was some kind of meshing of the gardens of the Queen of Hearts from Alice’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass, the country of Japan, and vampires. The boyfriend noted that, since True Blood is one of HBO’s successes right now, the latter element makes sense.
As heavily made-up maidens danced with parasols on raised stages to harp and tabla transcriptions of chart-topping 80’s pop songs (Baroque renditions of Bon Jovi, anyone?) the boyfriend and I made our way through the mazes of Godiva chocolate bars and Blackberry-hypnotized publicists to the cocktails.
Which is where our story takes a turn for the worse.
The boyfriend opted to try the specially crafted house cocktail for the night, which was some – and please excuse me but there really is no better word for it – faggy concoction of fruit liqueurs and vodka which ended up tasting like Kool-Aid flavored with batteries, while I played it safe (oh, irony) and ordered a dirty martini.
Next we got in line for the food buffet where I jockeyed for rare slices of filet mignon against Sally Field who, turns out, is quite adept with a steel fork.
Our plates piled high, the boyfriend and I found an empty table near the temporary fountain where the plus-ones of celebrities like to smoke reefers.
Having been naively seduced into selecting food simply because it advertised “…with shaved truffles,” I tried tiny bites of many dishes, sadly learning that no amount of thinly-sliced Tuber melanosporum can save a scallop that’s been sitting on a hot-plate since 1994. What can I say? I’m the most adventurous foodie I know and am willing to give anything a shot, but there’s a reason why puréed broccoli laced with butterscotch and stuffed into candied shrimp with caper and unseeded-cotton sauce is rarely served.
As a result of the conceptually intriguing but ultimately unpalatable food, I ate next to nothing while continuing on with my second dirty martini of the evening, finding new appreciation for the delicious simplicity of a green olive.
You can see where this is going, right?
The boyfriend and I went on a walkabout, thrilling in brushing against a gorgeous and scowling Shirley MacLaine, or laughing with our friend Clark, who was a deer-in-headlights, being some eight yards from his celebrity crush, Sigourney Weaver, or appreciating David Cross giving the right-away to whomever in the thick people traffic as he held two drinks, dressed less for the Emmys and more for Tuesday night poker with the guys.
Amidst all this celebrity sighting, I made occasional stops at any of the plentiful open bars to order a new dirty martini until, without realizing it, I had consumed five of them.
Now, if you were to take the amount of booze in five martinis and put it into one glass and told me to drink it, I’d tell you you’re out of your [word that makes baby Jesus cry] mind, but apparently if you split that same alcohol into five separate, cone-shaped bowls placed upon stems above flat bases – hey, ho, let’s go!
I don’t remember leaving the party. I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember carrying my cat around the house and showing him the tops of doors and explaining to the boyfriend, “He likes to see the tops of doors!” I don’t remember insisting on watching a documentary on Harriet Tubman, only to pass out on the sofa five minutes into it. I don’t remember the boyfriend having to literally push me up the stairs while I complained “Push harder! Faster!” I don’t remember sitting in front of the toilet and listening to Boudewijn de Groot…
…and I don’t remember filling the toilet with slightly digested, dirty martinis with shaved truffles. I don’t remember being tucked into bed by my patient boyfriend and I don’t remember my last words being a whiny complaint that “people don’t use puppets to their full advantage… puppets could be so cool…!”
I don’t remember these things, but they happened, and I heard all about them the next afternoon when I woke-up.
Having obliterated my immune system with a flood of dry vermouth, it’s unsurprising that I caught a cold. And let me tell you kids, having a cold in the middle of an L.A. heat-wave is a stupid and gross affair. It’s not easy when your stomach wants chicken soup and all you can manage is a Diet Coke. I even called in sick that Thursday, so those of you who came to Amoeba Music Hollywood that day, hoping for helpful suggestions on which soundtracks would be best for your step-daughter’s bat mitzvah, I apologize.
It had been 15 years since I drank so much I puked, when my dear friend Sadie looked after me and made sure I didn’t die like Jimi Hendrix, a kindness for which I thanked her by drunkenly punching her face as she laid me to bed. (I will be apologizing to Sadie for the rest of my life for that.) Hopefully it will be at least that much time before I re-learn how un-sexy a thing it is to get alcohol poisoning.
Anyway, that’s the sordid truth behind my failure to blog the last week. But I’m back, I’m sober, and ready for more Amoeblog. Thank the gods.