It was midnight-ish at the Tribeca Grand on Tuesday night and varied and sundry Billyburg hipsters were lined up at the coat check to avail themselves of their artfully torn fur coats and intentionally satin jackets. The twenty-something girl in front of me had a magazine picture of Justin Timberlake safety-pinned to her black t-shirt. It was, like, ironic.
Sensing that it was going to be a long night, I made like a journalist and headed for the bar. The bar was, inconveniently, more than five steps away from the entrance, which is clearly the mark of incompetent architectural planning. Stupid hotel.
I stood in line behind a woman wearing a seersucker jacket, a houndstooth mini-skirt, red tights, and one of those godawful truck-driver hats. (See Project Alabama truck-driver hat rant.) I'm not a "fashionista" and I'm not "cool." I'm not even what most people would refer to as "capable of remembering that I wore the same clothes three days ago."
But Jesus Christ.
It occured to me that the last syllable of "electroclash" quite possibly referred to the clothes and I resolved to just accept it and move onpreferrably to the bar. I figured a scotch-and-soda would extend my stay from say, the next 45 seconds to possibly the next fifteen minutes. Or however long it took me to finish my drink.
Proof that the fashionistas were out in full force: I later noticed blue-haired Ben Cho sitting in the lobby with a small entourage. If you don't know who Ben Cho is, you're...pretty...normal. No one I ask seems to know what he does. He did a show during fashion week that wasn't actually a show, but an art installation. Or something like that. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. Andy Warhol did the same thing for years, and it seems to have worked out well for him.
But back to the main topic: me.
I was curious about the band, after having to read about them, their cult following, and their tribute band, week after week after week after week in the Village Voiceand occasionally in other publications. There was only one problem. I didn't really remember what the band looked like. And I wasn't sure, given the if-it-doesn't-match-wear-it dress code, that they'd necessarily stick out in the crowd.
I wandered around a bit, mildly disliking people and asking myself, "If I were Casey Spooner, where would I be?"
"In my hotel suite, feeding b-list models ecstacy," I answered.
I wasn't being very helpful.
I walked into the lobby area and saw three guys in matching suits standing next to a woman who, in all seriousness, appeared to be Susan Sontag.* (If my four-year-old nephew had been there I would have asked him "which of these items did not fit?" The guy in the suit? The other guy in the suit? Susan Sontag? Or the other guy in the suit? I'm sure he would have guessedcorrectlythe guy in the suit.)
I was gawking at the newly discovered Casey Spooner when Saturday Night Live comic Jimmy Fallon nudged his way past me, officially making me the envy of countless numbers of American 13-year-old girls. (I'm pretty sure Fischerspooner's indie cred died when Jimmy Fallon walked through the door. One more ounce of bubble gum cuteness and he'd be a full-blown boy band.)
Casey Spooner was grinning from ear-to-ear and clearly enjoying His Party. The expression on his face seemed to say, "Dude! Jimmy Fucking Fallon came to my party!"
But I jest.
It was actually more like, "Dude! Susan Fucking Sontag came to my party!"
[Three weeks ago the expression on my face was, "Dude! Kurt Fucking Andersen came to my party!" But I pride myself on being a blatant hypocrite, so that's different.]
I decided my fifteen minutes were upliterally;not figurativelyor my drink was gone, or some combination of the two, so I headed back upstairs to leave. Mr. Spooner headed upstairs as well. (Coincidence?...Well, yes.)
As I reached the top of the stairs, I passed a line of people clamoring to get past the almighty Clipboard Woman. One of the people waiting ambushed Casey and asked if she could get in, and he very nicely ushered her past the list lady. He seemed to feel guilty that there was a line and that people weren't being allowed in. But maybe not that guilty (lest you think I was going to recklessly use the word "sweet").
I'm thinking of becoming a groupie.
* Yes, I was confused as well.