Lying Blog Parties Are The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off. But It's Better If You Do.

In what's fast becoming an annual tradition in the mold of the Winona parties and the Emma Grimshaw Letter Writing Contest, I dragged two non-bloggers to a blogger party last night in Midtown at Mica Bar. If last year's K Lounge was an Indian bordello, this was a subtle bordello mixed with an Aztec tomb. According to one of the bloggers, there's a Japanese brothel down the street somewhere, which I did kind of want to take a look at, but common decency and blogger dedication.com kept me in my place.

Now picture 50 people at least 10 years older than me, Shaggy's "It Wasn't Me" blasting in the background, and a douchy waitress who was very VERY anti-Emma. I think she heard my vitriol against the Mica Burger. (Which tasted like the cow had been poisoned and soaked in Clinique Happy. SO within my rights to gripe.)

To set the scene properly, I biked over to this lovely Aztec establishment at 8:30, when the party was supposed to get going. I walk in and the place is DESERTED, save for Drunk Erin, ever the prompt alcoholic, nursing a Miller Light and glancing nervously around, as if the blogger community was suddenly going to appear in hazy hologram form like those weird ghost things under the mountain in Return of the King. After a failed attempt to get me to order an alcoholic beverage (besides generally just not liking the taste, this did not seem to be the appropriate time to not have all of my sensory perceptions intact), Drunk Erin and I speculated about where the primo defensive positioning in the bar was, as we wanted to be in a corner somewhere like a caged animal, gazing at the incoming bloggers suspiciously and not getting caught unawares by a crazy fan of Weenie Enema. As three people read this, that was not an immediate concern.

At any rate, Ingrid showed up soon afterward, and the entire blogger party was constituted of a noble contingent from Weenie Enema for a good 15 minutes. Being a blogger party veteran at this point, I knew from experience that bloggers don't start filing into a party for a good half an hour or so after the appropriated starting time. I guess they figure with the social stigma already attached to them, it's best to have the semblance of fashionability (Did I make that word up?) and arrive late. I don't give into social constructions like that. When your entire personality is based on smelling aniquated books at yard sales and deliberating about what random historical figure to be for Halloween, being cool is no longer a legitimate consideration. Digression.net

The first actual blogger to show up was Julia Gorin, who makes me look...non-hardcore. She's a conservative comedian who has a comedy showcase thingy on Wednesday in Chelsea. Totally going. Considering that no one else was there and she was kind of forced to converse with us, she was very gracious. She didn't seem to completely swallow my "Winona was shafted by society" theory, but few do, so I didn't take it personally. She was pop culturally aware enough to realize that there are some interesting connections between Winona and Kiera Knightley, which I will be taking up in a future blog entry. Julia also likes cake. I hear that. Big thumbs up. She gave off a Kathy Najimy vibe, which is beyond badass. Sister Act is nothing without her.

I'm not saying they're twins, but you'd think they were related. Fo rizzle.

By the time Julia Gorin had been forced to hear every celebrity-related conspiracy theory in my head, the place was really filling up. We met Eric, who has to be the biggest sweetie bojangles in the world. After the first hour, when we decided we didn't want to be social and escaped downstairs to sup on the diseased bovine, Eric came down and shot the shizzle with us for a while. He refused to eat the remnants of my cow because he had made probably the most egregious error one can make in the city - getting a taco from one of those mad shady Korean-run stands. It's like getting Filipino pizza - why on earth would you bother when another nationality has completely schooled the art of za?

During the course of my socializing (using the term as liberally as i possibly can), a woman recognized me from my blog and asked if the 10 people around me were my posse. Easily the second coolest moment of the night. I didn't get a chance to talk to her until later, but Judith was very nice and apparently a huge fan of my critically acclaimed masterpiece about the Magnificant Seven gymnastics squad. Who knew? She also had the most amazing nametag ever - I raped one less woman than the UN. It blew my "I'll put out if you link to me" tag out of the water.

"That's not funny, Judith!"
Sorry, Kofi. It was.

By now, you're probably wondering, "Emma, if Judith thinking you had a posse was the second coolest moment, what was the first?" Ah, an excellent question indeed. Mica Bar is situated next to the most random slash incredible place ever - the UN Mission to the Kingdom of Tonga. Ingrid and I tried to get in, but the Tongan representatives had the audacity to lock their front door. Pfft. By peering into the front office and gazing at the travel brochures, Tonga is apparently a Polynesian paradise. If I ever find myself with $2000 and a week of time on my hands, I may attempt to verify this for myself. At any rate, when Drunk Erin went outside to smoke a little while after our discovery, she claimed she saw a six-year-old girl in the Tonga mission front office without her shirt on. Bizarre, but color me skeptical. I can think of much better places to wander around shirtless. Unless that's a Tonga thing.

Tonga: the Polynesian paradise with shirtless young girls.

The other two noteworthy lads that I had the pleasure of meeting were Ivan Lenin and Dorian Davis. I briefly met Dorian at the last blogger party, where I confused him with the younger brother from Bring It On. He has the most amazing hair in the universe, bar none.

And I have the sneaking suspicion he is going to look like he's 19 for the next 60 years. He's a gay Republican, which is as intriguing a species as the sand cat or the mongoose and is at the helm of a new online magazine dealing with said species. He said he might do a blog interview. As loyal readers are well aware of, we have never in the history of Weenie Enema had a legitimate blog interviewee subject. This could change.

Ivan is my favorite of all things. He looks like a cross between Lenin, a Newsie and Moby, which I did not think was a possible combination to have, but I talked to him for a good chunk of time and am hereby verifying that such a hybrid can exist. Based on his blog and the bits and pieces I derived from our discussion, he's a Belarussian Communist Lenin impersonator. If we can get an interview with him as well, I think we can pretty much bank on becoming an international blog sensation. Ivan is a total darling and somehow put up with the three of us voluntarily during our Cow-Eating Reclusive Period. We thank him for that.

It would be a sin not to mention Karol at some point, since she essentially hosted the party and possesses my copy of "The Outsiders." She was not pleased when she discovered we had stolen the Belarussian Communist from the party and brought him to our web of intrigue downstairs. Since she joined Facebook this week just to prove to me that Facebook sucks, I'd say we're even.

Although Drunk Erin and Ingrid basically spent the entire evening in stunned silence, watching the conveyor belt of people pass us by, I feel it was worth risking the love/support of the roommates to venture into the frozen tundra of where the Internet and random social encounters meet. I just REALLY really wish the Tonga mission had been open.