One thing is for certain: I never allow the absence of actual invites to keep me from attending these sine qua non shindigs. No, really, all you need is to be *friends* with the well-liked and admired, and you can ride their coattails to success (or the open bar).

My first stop after Wednesday night's class was Hi Fi, where there was a book release party going on for some book about--wait for it--emo. Yes, picture it: a hundred young men with identical floppy hairdos and tight cordouroy slacks drinking Rheingold and talking intently about, I dunno, British Sea Power. The type of crowd where I could've hopped up on the bar, bent over, dropped trou, and shouted "The dining car is now open!" without anyone noticing. Emo Neckbeard, indeed!

The place was rife with music writers, Sasha Frere-Jones being my absolute favorite among them, and I'm not just saying that because I made him my impromptu tour guide.

"Every rock critic in New York is here tonight," he said, gesturing with a nod at the crowd.

"My god, if someone were to blow this place up?" I said.

"There would be no one at the next Mekons show."

Then he insisted on introducing me to Chuck Klosterman, which I thought was very kind. Either that or he was sick of me. Needless to say, I chatted with CK briefly but was interrupted by a classmate who was shocked to see me. "Who do you know here?" she asked. "No one. Move along," I replied.

But instead she told me about her misadventures as a chick lit book editor. "And I told the art department, this woman is a *real writer*, she actually published a series of short stories last year. Do not give her a pink cover. This is NOT a pink book!"

Right now would be a good time to mention that had Maud "Punk Ass" Newton (that's TMFTML's nickname for her, not mine) been there like she'd said she would instead of "having" the "flu" (whatever, Maud, I know you were really on your second day of ibogaine), I could've ducked out on this conversation a lot quicker.

Overheard on my way out:
Girl #1: Chuck seems like a really nice guy.
Girl #2: I know! And he doesn't look like a child molester at all.

Next I was off to meet up with TMFTML for the Gizmodo afterparty. I will warn you right now: if you're looking for an actual account of who was there and what they did, you should probably go here. For salacious libel, continue reading.

We get to the Holiday Lounge, sycophants in tow (making the scene=creating a scene), order some tepid cocktails and plug "More Than This" into the jukebox 16 times. Choire was holding court a few feet away. I waved. "I hope you don't mind me crashing this party," I said blithely. "Of course not," he laughed, "You of ALL people should be here, of course!" He quickly scanned the room, then leaned into me, eyes glowing red in a There-is-no-Choire-only-ZOOL sorta way. His talons sunk into my lapels. "Do not fuck with me, dearie. This is our house, and our house music. I am the creator!" Then he returned to human form. "Love your coat. Where's Maud, by the way?"

"She, ah, has the flu."

The smell of creosote still tinging my nostrils, I noticed Lindsay and thought I'd introduce myself. She was tying a daisy chain of maraschino cherry stems with her tongue. I was impressed. "Hi!" she exclaimed, tossing the necklace over her shoulder. "Where's Maud?"

"She, ah, has the flu."

I went to the bar and got another crapshoot cocktail. I think it was tequila and ginger ale. You pays yer money and you takes yer chances at the Holiday.

I bumped into Grant, who, blessedly, didn't ask where that infernal Maud woman was. "So, what'd I miss at the party," I asked.

"Not much. Here, I brought you something," he added, pulling a half-eaten crab rangoon out of a cocktail napkin. "This was actually *in* Nick Denton's mouth. I thought you might like it."

The night wore on. Grant introduced me to Andrew from The Morning News, who is--and this is neither here nor there, but I haven't said anything sexually inappropriate in like 5 grafs, so--the second most adorable being on the planet, after his wife. He said strangely complimentary things about this blog. I thanked him profusely and gave him Nick Denton's canape as payola.

I suppose you're all wondering where TMFTML was this whole time, but I couldn't tell you. I think he was off having his cornhole licked somwhere.

After I finished my third rum and tonic I decided it was about time to go. TMFTML emerged from the storage closet with his shirt on inside out. "Where are you going?" he demanded. "The party's just getting started. I hear Colin Farrell might be showing up."

But no, I was just too tired. Maybe I was catching what Maud has. Grant and I left TMFTML on the corner of St. Marks and 1st Ave., where he offered two homeless men shots of Rumpleminze and engine coolant in exchange for a quick fistfight. We grabbed some slices at Strombolis and hopped in a cab back to Brooklyn.

"What a night," Grant yawned.

"I know," I yawned back.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"G'head," I replied, thinking: I think Grant is my favoritest person.

"Do you think Maud likes me?"