I had an interesting weekend. A good friend of mine had a cocktail party at his place in Chelsea on Saturday night. It’s not what I’m into, but he’s a good friend it had been about a month since I’d seen him so I thought I’d check it out. Also, he sent the cocktail menu in advance and I was surprised to see a drink I co-invented on there, called “Ghost Face Killer”, named because it has Ghost Pepper infused salt. The Ghost Pepper is the word’s hottest, grown in Nagaland, India, which I introduced him to. It is the case that I’m still not drinking, but it is also the case that I was hyper-curious if people were going to like my invention.

I invited a couple female friends to check the party out with me, girls who would be able to do well in the crowd and enjoy it. I was glad both could come.

I went early to see if the host needed any help with things, but as he had hired a team of bartenders for the night, there was nothing to be done. I was surprised to find a crowd had already formed when I first arrived, about an hour early. And an hour after that, there were about 80 people (according to the bouncer checking names). My guests came about a half-hour after that. Had I known it was going to be such a big event, I would have prepared them better. Fortunately for me, both of them dressed up, so they fit right in. Unfortunately for me, I did not dress up, and was wearing grey pants, black Limmers, and a black t-shirt. This time I was definitely, definitely, the only one not wearing “get laid” clothes. You know: blazer, jeans, stripy shirt unbuttoned at the top, little fuckface booties on the feet. You know exactly what I’m talking about: barf coverings.

There were lots of douchey fuckfaces in there, and a large swath of the most monied young people of New York City. The senior editor of Vogue magazine was there, a 30-something brat, also a ferrari race car driver, a member of the New England Patriots, various CEOs, lots of investors and hedge fund robots, the owner of Equinox was there, etc. Outside his building there were rows of cars with drivers.

My friend’s place is really nice. It’s the penthouse of a relatively new building, has two wings, four bedrooms, and every amenity you’d expect from a place that was designed by someone whose design fee alone was equivalent to the full cost of a large upper class house.

My friend is a good guy, someone of great character and good intentions. It’s still confusing to me that he’s able to spend time in the douchey circles, but for him it’s a strategic interest– he relies on wealthy investors to keep his fund going, so some of these parties (not all of them, maybe about half of them he said) include invitations to all of those guys– the young hyper-wealthy of the city. Some are the sons or daughters of oil barrons, heirs and heiresses to this or that ill-gotten fortune from eras of slavery and exploitation, some got lucky gambling in the market, legally or not, some are just good at exploiting opportunities that allow them to take as much as possible for themselves.

After separating to mingle for a bit, I reunited with both of the people I invited and heard some hilarious stories about things they were being told or shown from the various be-jacketed prowlers. “This one guy came over and started showing me pictures of how he crashed his Bugatti into his tennis court at his mansion in the Hamptons. I was like, are you kidding me? That’s your opening? No names or anything else?”

And they weren’t. Apparently that’s how it works in that circle. My guests seemed both shocked and entertained by the scene, though one of them had experienced it all before, but not to this level.

The guys in there assumed that the girls there were all hangers-on, and on nights like this, that’s what they wanted. And truthfully, most of the girls in there were just doing what they know how to do. The preponderance of Eastern European accents and tits and gratuitous physical contact spoke to that. Incidentally, “hanger-on” is the right word:

“n pl hangers-on: a sycophantic follower or dependent, esp one hoping for personal gain”

And if any of you need extra:

“syc·o·phant  (sk-fnt, sk-)n. A servile self-seeker who attempts to win favor by flattering influential people.”

The place was crawling with the shallow and the idiotic. Braggarts and toadies, groupies and hilariously cookie-cutter narcissists. It’s actually very hard to describe adequately how slimy the whole atmosphere was, but take my word that it was quite a scene. If you  visualize what a party of billionaire 30-somethings would be like if each had the character, maturity, wisdom and gumption of a teenager, you’d be close.

When the super babes started going in groups to the bathroom to do lines, and when people started spending varying lengths of time behind closed doors, I grabbed my guests and suggested we leave. They were already ready and happy to head out, and both were in a great mood from the buzz of the absurd.

We had a nice conversation about the whole thing afterwards and I learned how girls read situations like that, and how they interpret what’s going on there, and the various personalities it takes for a scene like that to develop. We ended up grabbing coffees, and one of them decided to crash over.

Overall it was interesting and I’m glad I went, and equally glad I left when I did, probably around 1:30a, presumably when the “party” was just getting started for many of them.

I debriefed with my friend about it the next day and learned more things. He assured me that what he had going on that night was “nothing” compared to even average weekends for that circle, and he was happy to tap into it when needed, and happy to stay away in all other regards. For instance, he said, he didn’t let a single girl stay over even though by the end it was just him, his brother, and 5 hot, probably desperate women with nothing else to do. He made them all leave, which, since he’s single, was impressive to me. I’m not sure I could have done it.

He deserves our props for that my monkeys!!

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Had great training yesterday that lasted two hours and my legs are sore as hell now, which is perfect. I have the day off from training today and all I want to do is head home after work, put some radio on, and finish painting a new secondhand table that I carved some neat things into.

OK, coffee meter’s running low. Hope you all have a great start to the week and don’t forget to do that thing you’ve been putting off because I’m pretty sure today is a perfect day to do it.

Later!