Graciously, my parent’s often toss me their invitation rejects, random invites to lesser events which they’re too cool to attend. I have no problem with this. In fact, I welcome it. Got an unwanted invite to some sort of crappy reception, awards ceremony or gallery opening? Hook it up. I’ll gladly go.
So, when Pa forwarded me an e-mail from the folks at the New Yorker, inviting him to some Whiskey/Golf-cartoon event in the city, he passed that shit on to me. Hmmmm, whiskey and golf art from 7-9 on Thursday night.
Chris and I hit Sushi Rock before the event, where I warned him of the possibilities.
“This could suck. This could be us walking into some empty wherehouse.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Or, we might not be on the list. I just left a message on some answering machine in New York.”
We found parking incredibly close, and walked the 2 South of Market blocks to the event. “In and out if it sucks, right?”
But suddenly before us was a huge event going on, an event which looked surprisingly weird and fabulous. We gazed through the huge glass walls on the ground floor of a monstrous office building, finding inside a well-dressed group of young business-y people playing miniature golf and drinking whiskey. A staff photographer mingled among them, between the links and the low lit bar. Big leather chairs and gift bags lined the walls as we walked inside.
We were immediately instructed to fill out some kind of survey, and the photographer rushed over, capturing Chris is some kind of sign-in photo shoot. Ushered over to check in, I was delighted to find we were actually on the list.
“Thanks for checking in!” smiled our gorgeous greeter. “Head over to the bar or play some golf.”
I grabbed some 15 year old Glenlivet and a putter and hit those links. I have never golfed before, and let me just say, I don’t get what the big deal is. The only bonus, other than the abundance of fake ponds and grass all over the place, were the tables set up near every hole, so you could, you know, put down your whiskey. We finished our round, engaging the other New Yorker golf-cartoon aficionados in witty banter along the way. Apparently, Chris and I were noticing the same thing. Back at the bar, Chris leaned over.
“All the women in here are hideous.”
“Yeah.” I noted. “And all the guys are hot. Like, seriously hot. Well, whiskey and golf. What do you expect?”
I should point out that while hot, many of the guys also appeared to be well-dressed assholes, particularly one in a peach colored, Ralph Lauren, cable-knit cashmere sweater. He seemed like the kind of guy that would throw water balloons at the foreign exchange and/or disabled students from his frat house balcony and then high five his minions. He made fun of my putting, and I hate him.
We also noticed the cheesy, Santa-esque, drunk, red-headed guy in a kilt, some Scottish dude they pay to mingle with the guests and say things in an accent. Needless to say, peach sweater cornered Scottish dude and made him take mildly humiliating and exploitative digital photos.
Suddenly, my attentions were diverted elsewhere.
“They’re running out of gift bags!”
I actually attempted to steal an unguarded bag, but found it already looted. We decided to find out what the gift bags contained before jumping through hoops to secure one. I approached 2 older, bearded men who appeared drunk and potentially willing to let me rifle through their haul. Bill and Mark were all too pleased, and after examining the latest issue of the New Yorker, a hardcover book filled with golf cartoons and a Glenlivet leather bowl (?), I found myself suddenly disinterested in the contents.
Chris and I allowed ourselves to be photographed one last time before splitting and made our way to somewhere where both wine and food were available, even if we had to pay for them.
Boulevard was packed, although Willie Brown’s table looked like we could squeeze in, so we headed around the corner to Chaya. I’d never been to Chaya before, and I’ve become a fan. I especially dug the light fixtures in the bar and enjoyed a glass of Pinot while Chris ordered dessert. My only complaints are the ghetto bathrooms, which look like hobos live in them.
We headed home, pleasantly surprised by our random whiskey/golf event. One never knows what to expect when attending other people’s party rejects, the potential for disaster or lameness high, but I’d rate this one a 6.2 on a scale of 10. On the upside, the free booze was excellent, although limited in selection, the array of both hot guys and complete freakshows was appropriately varied, I found good parking and we were constantly and glamorously photographed for unknown publications. On the downside, there was no where to sit, I couldn’t find any snacks and there wasn’t enough stranger-to-stranger mingling going on.
We’ll revisit the strange event subject next week. I’ve got another event on Thursday, a fabulous community mixer at a Retirement Home. What to wear, what to wear…