Other People's Parties (O.P.P.)

Less than 24 hours to deadline for my first Negative Waves article, I find myself still hung over and profoundly slow. This is no way to make an entrance for this column. I suppose it'll have to do at this point because it's too late to turn back now, especially with the holiday season upon us once again. The synapses aren't firing as fast as they normally would be for me, mainly because of partaking in just about the most ginormous company holiday party I'd been to this weekend.

Best of all, it wasn't my company's party.

Unlike my hometown, Gotham, and the glorious city of Chicago, public transportation and getting a taxi is, for the most part, a heap of hot feces in San Francisco. Knowing this, the main organizer of our outing had arranged for a limousine to pick us up at his house after about an hour and a half of conservative cocktails, though we could all tell quite early that the majority of us were going to go down in flames - despite our pacing of drinks, or lack thereof.

A white stretch Hummer limo pulls up. I am confused. I look for immediate justification as to why this has happened. I figure that all the other yuppie-in-denial tree huggers in San Francisco had us beat that night and are either headed to the same party, or they've already smacked up two BMWs on DWIs and are on their third. In two minutes though, I am over it. I figure that it's much better than eighteen shit-faced drunks driving over to the convention hall in downtown SF, let alone trying to find parking to this event.

The limo driver hops out of the front, and we all bound down the stairs, out of the house, and onto Market Street. The back door to the limo is opened for us and we, each with our shiny red plastic Solo cups in hand, climb into this monstrosity as indecipherable, God-awful techno music plays on some "party" radio station. I start having hallucinations of Jay-Z, 50-Cent, and bottles of Cristal, though the music pumping is more like mindless Euro-trance (which in my opinion, is the worst kind of music imaginable). The bass is too much for anyone's teeth and I become distracted by the blue Tesla coil-like objects positioned towards the front and back of the limo. I start playing with the one behind my head, getting the electric rays to follow my fingers. Between them are tubes full of water with plastic tropical fish, about an inch big each. Bubbles blown by an air filter at each tube's base bounce around the fish, keeping them afloat.

This is all amazingly ridiculous.

The limo wonkily lumbers along the streets and thankfully, on this route, there aren't any of those seriously scary hills. At this point, I am still awed that not one of us has hopped out of the sunroof to yell at the top of our lungs like Tom Hanks in Big, or any of those 80's movies for that matter. It never happens, surprisingly enough.

Stepping out of the Hummer and onto the curb in front of the entrance to the party, all of us dressed-up in our best, our party posse carries our swill-filled Solo cups like trash badges - real classy-like. No one stops our entourage as we manage to hustle inside as a group. The actual employees of the company register at the entrance and get $1000 in fake money to go over to the twenty some odd gambling tables that are set up. Their winnings are turned in for raffle tickets at the end of night, which go towards prizes provided by the top execs at this huge Internet media company. You know· things like a trip to Cancun or something. I was too drunk to remember what was on the prize list when I read it, as I was busy pilfering the Mardi Gras beads on the tables in an attempt to make myself into a pimped-out, plastic pearl strand version of Audrey Hepburn.

Base camp is set up in the general vicinity of Texas Hold'Em, but within the first five minutes I'm there, I immediately end up losing everyone because I run into friends, old clients and colleagues from the Internet lifetime past, Bay Area Bloggerati, and various acquaintances. The convention hall is cavernous and done up in a pirate theme, complete with masts of cheese and professional photographers. Prom photo background with real flaming torches! A sea of gambling tables! People doing the junior high school shuffle-step-clap! A mass of smokers huddled in the cold outside! Woo-hoo! Internet! Partying like it's 1999! Cocktail wieners... WIENERS! I secretly pray that they're not some California-style fake-ass tofu wieners, and they're not. Ahhh, wieners.

I navigate to grab a quick cig with some buddies, swashbuckle my ass over to the coat check, then hit the bar. Because, you know, I'm a woman with priorities. Then the bar again. Then the bar. Then the bar.

Los Angeles-based Afro-Latin worldbeat frat rock outfit, Ozomatli, starts playing onstage. My mind starts to drift with the music, which I'm not particularly interested in, but it keeps my body moving and twirling, and I don't think I'm going to vomit. In fact, I am feeling quite sufficiently housed.

Is John Mayer really going out with Jennifer Love Hewitt? Maybe I should go back to a different table to get another drink so they don't think I have a drinking problem? My, I finished that last one awfully fast. How am I going to get home? Where is everybody? Why isn't anyone picking up his or her cellphone in here? Where are they? Who can I call while drunk who's not here right now? What time is it in New York? Would they kill me if I drunk-dialed them? I never had this problem running three hours ahead. I should eat some food to soak up the booze. Isn't the damage done, though? What's eating going to do for me now? This dress is too tight, but I'm glad it was on sale. Last year the Flaming Lips played, why did they get Ozomatli this year? Isn't that retarded what the D'Backs asked for Randy Johnson? If I were Cashman I wouldn't have done that either! Should I take pictures with my cellphone? I can't even take pictures. God, I can't even focus, what good are pictures now! OMFG, I am wasted. OMFG. I can't believe I'm using Internet acronyms while thinking in my head.

Snapped out of my reverie, nine Tequila Sunrises later, the bartendress helping me stop my eyes from goggling in the back of my head, just enough for me to fixate on answering her question which is, "What's in a Tequila Sunrise?"

(Well honestly, at this point it doesn't matter, and fucked if I know·)

I manage, "O.J., Tequila, and some red stuff. Maybe cranberry, or grenadine, or something." I then hobble and stagger away with my makeshift booze, while carefully perched on my pained, heel-clad feet. In the process, I never quite make it - 86-ing an innocent, virginal three-foot tiramisu lying there on the banquet table, which was minding its' own business before I came by and done fucked shit up.

Classy. Real klassy, with a "k," even. It's at this point I decide to stop returning for drinks.

Beyond that, it all becomes blurry, as I have no recollection of when everyone motivated to leave. I remember being able to get my coat, triumphantly walking past the sullen girls doing "the dance" on the long line to the women's bathroom (having not had to hit the restroom once during the night), and then hustling into a cab, which really was all anyone could have expected of me to process at that point.

The after party was a bit large as well. The next thing I know, I'm in a garage that's piled to the brim with crap. I'm on an acoustic guitar strung left-handed; playing upside down Root-5 power chords while one friend is rocking the mic with a straw cowboy hat on his head. Out of the corner of my eye, he vaguely looks like Bono.

Two other buddies were on the bass and drums throwing down the rhythm section, and I'd have to say that it all sounded pretty great, considering that anyone sounds like a symphony orchestra when you and your cohorts are the ones that are all wasted. That held true for the four of us there in the garage. At one point toward the end of our session, both Bono and I were standing on a plastic box that had crushed inward. It eventually gave way, and we both ate it, tumbling downward in a most fabulous fiasco. We re-emerged mid-song, unscathed and laughing.

It had to have been about 3AM, but who was paying attention? Good thing I was in the presence of friends, and not colleagues.

The 7 Point Plan For Surviving Your Own Company Party:

1. Do not, by any means, use it as an opportunity to make out with a co-worker. I think hetero-guys are especially dumb with this one. Just because your female colleague is especially full with, uh, the holiday spirit, don't misinterpret every little action as a come-on or her finally 'fessing up to her deep-seated desire for you. Women get "Beer Eye for the Straight Guy." She's just loaded. Leave her alone if you have any honor or decency whatsoever, you lecherous boob. And ladies, fer fuckssakes - just stay away from the copy machine. I don't have to explain this one. If you need an explanation, and if you're that painfully retarded, then you deserve it. Really.
2. Take a piss/vomit before you leave the venue. Don't piss yourself in your nice pants. Likewise, if you feel the vomitus coming on, quickly escort yourself to the nearest exit, turn the block until you're out of sight, and let it go like a psycho ex on Crack. If you think you're going to make it, chances are: a) your judgment is impaired, and b) you probably won't make it because said judgment is impaired. That means you're not in the condition to think for yourself, and in this case, I'm doing the thinking for you here so you don't have to. This ain't a Bon Jovi song, Tico Torres. This is your career, here. Rid yourself of the poison that eats you alive from within.
3. Avoid iffy executives that you are not cool with. Perhaps I understate this, but it's very important to know. However, this concept is simple. They probably think you're a dumbass. You think they're probably a dumbass. No one's changing anyone's professional opinion of anyone over two layers of management in one night. No conspiracy here. Now is not the time to make new friends and alliances. Chances are you'll make the first move to say hello, being the brown-nosed, ass-kissing douche you are. Then, not only would you be a dumbass, but also a phenomenally drunk dumbass to boot. How would you redeem yourself even in a post-party, stone-cold sober situation like work the following week? They may not know your name off the bat, but they do know you're on their payroll and they'll remember your ugly mug for sure. Nothing good can come of this. At all.
4. Choose your companions for the party wisely based on their tolerance for alcohol, the ability to handle themselves in social situations, and their agility, just in case you find yourselves running from an angry mob. No one is going to want to hang out with Little Prince Fauntelroy Holiday Fruitcake, so make sure that you're not stuck babysitting and that they possess a decent amount of social skill, not ineptitude. The rule is simple. Don't bring a friend who puts the capital "B" in the word "Beeyotch." Remember· not only do you reflect your own behavior, but whom you bring reflects upon you too. Make sure they know to make themselves scarce in awkward situations and know how to take care of themselves should they become too crippled to speak. Make especially sure they do not drunkenly stumble into your boss (and in fact, don't bother even pointing your boss out or introducing your boss if you can help it) in order to avoid strangeness such as: "They're right, you're wicked hot," or "Wow, my buddy made you out to be a lot meaner than you actually are." Dude. So. Not. Good.
5. Aim on the conservative side of the "festive" dress code. Some people dig leather pants or plunging necklines, but this is not the occasion that you want to be pulling fashion statements like this off. Do I work for UPS? No, but I was checkin' out your package. It was kinda hard not to miss, and I bet everyone else was checkin' out your package too. So unless your name is Peter North or Jenna Jameson, and it is industry appropriate, nobody needs to know your interpretation of what festive is. That was what Halloween was for.
6. Avoid goats, sheep, and barnyard animals in general, unless they're cooked. You're not the Baby Jesus.
7. In all seriousness folks, take a means of transportation that is safe and convenient. Don't drink and drive and yadda yadda. That'd just about be the most asinine thing you could do. OK, people. We know how this lecture goes, do we not?

Since the party took place more than 48 hours ago, I started my recovery with processed pork products and Gatorade. The aftermath surprisingly turned out well for all. There were some lost jackets, lost coats, and the piecing together of hazy facts and bizarre instances that can be dismissed with the ol' standby: "I was drunk." The same next-day general slowness all-around - the numbers of souls experiencing the same kind of pain, possibly 4500 partygoers strong. I think to myself of whether or not they're in the same space as me· the wrangling through "Outgoing Calls" on the cellphone, wondering whom you drunk dialed while at the event and what you said, and whether or not you should call to apologize, that is, if you remember anything you said to them at all. However, no psychological damage was reported, there were no major incidents, and Madden 2004 was the most anyone could handle the day after - hey, wait a sec. Didn't that guy So-and-So egg me on to try and get me to make out with our friend So-and-So's girlfriend?

There's much fun to be had at a professional party when the personal stakes aren't your own. So the case I'm making is this: Don't attempt to do things like fingerpaint with tiramisu at your own company party. When it all comes right down to it, your company holiday party is not just a party. It's a party spent fraternizing with colleagues, and you'll have to hear about it if you do something effing stupid for more than eight hours per workday. In fact, you'll hear about it for your whole career.

If you're the one extending an invitation, inviting "just enough" friends that can drink the salary increase that you're not going to get this year in booze is key. I'd say that and a party large enough that no one can link you immediately back to the friend that you invited would be a pretty ideal situation.

As for O.P.P. - Other People's Parties - if you are an invitee, take reparations. Considering that the corporation you're mooching off of for the night is most likely the reason you never see your friend/significant other/bar buddy/pet turtle/hosebeast anymore because they're sitting in their veal-fattening pen day-in and day-out waiting for the Paid Time Off Fairy to pay them a visit. I say fuck that shit. Knock back some eggnog and squeeze your Old Lady's ass under the mistletoe in fist-pumping cause for celebration. This holiday season, give your friends and family the gift of time, or at least give them a reason to take some well-deserved vacation days. Make it a point with everyone to create and share in the moronic situations that no one's memory will soon repress, because the holidays are all about trying to appreciate and enjoy other people's company with a smile, no matter how intolerable and dysfunctional they may be.

Good night, good fight. Stay safe.