DESIDERATUM

As I was falling asleep I came to the conclusion that if I’m going to going to get some a-level gash at “THE PREMIERE EVENT IN NEW YORK CITY TONIGHT” (according to Nat) I should probably dress like a normal human being. The rationale being–of course–that looking like a not-bum can help me get my foot in the door with some a-level gash, at which point it’s all up to me to not sound like I absolutely hate myself. I called my sister for help because she always seemed to have thousands of dollars in credit card bills every month while at Northwestern because she was shopping at Chicago’s trendiest stores. She agreed to do all the work for me and I went to sleep.

But, I woke up at noon and she wasn’t not home. Her boyfriend had chest pains and she took him to the hospital. He turned out to be alright, but I wasn’t. I was fucked. I don’t know the first thing about shopping. The last time I bought a suit was ten years ago. I called my mother and said, “Elissa’s not here with me. What the fuck!” She said to, “walk around looking for a gay or something, and make him dress you.” Yeah right. Like I’m going to let a gay dress me like I’m in the Gay Club for Men? Instead, I found a nice looking black girl named Samantha and we hung out in some trendy store for an hour while she literally dressed me. We were like keys on a piano, Samantha and I! I was her junky-thin, hairy Jew boy and she was my style-conscious, sultry ebony princess. She had me trying out suits and she’d say “I like that,” which I would respond to by saying, “Yeah, but does it look like I give a shit?” So whatever, the point is: I bought some clothes to wear tonight. I can’t vouch for how they look, but at least it’s not super-tight jeans and a hoodie. If it looks like I actually like myself, that’s fine with me.

Now I just wish I had some business cards to hand out. My plan was to steal 100 business cards and cross off everyone’s names and write mine on top if it. “Here’s my card. It says Denny’s Pool Cleaning, but my name is Evan and I’m a writer. Oh, my number? No it’s not that one, it’s the one scrawled on the back in Sharpee.” Ilya’s idea was to buy one of those small Post-It pads (red and heart shaped) and write my contact info on that.

So that’s it. I’ll be at this thing all night. Check back tomorrow and I’ll regale you with stories about what it’s like being an industry hater at an industry event. And if I bump into Winona Ryder or Vincent Gallo or Willem Dafoe or Zach Braff and Mandy Moore or whoever else the fuck is gonna be there, I’ll try to steal their wallet or something.

Look for my picture on all those celebrity gossip blogs. I’ll be the Jew.

(rimshot!)