Last night there was a party, and I was invited.
Yes, you read that right.
Me. Jim Treacher, if that isn’t my real name. I got to go to a party, even though I’m a blogger. Not to say this is a rare occurrence, but the last party I was invited to, three of the attendees pooped their pants. (Aunt Carla’s 90th.)
So it was kind of a big deal to get invited to a party in the first place. Not to mention that it was the launch party for the Daily Caller, being held at the home of Juleanna Glover, the sister of our awesome PR guru, Becca Glover Watkins. Juleanna is a Washington hostess of no small repute, which I admit I didn’t know until I got my invitation and Googled her. Plus she’s directly responsible for Tucker’s television career, which I think he still has.
Because it was one of Juleanna’s parties, a lot of famous people were going to be there. Well, sort of famous. Famous if all you do is watch the news and read blogs. It’s not like Tom Cruise would be there dancing on a table or anything, although I’m sure you could talk him into it after a couple of Zimas.
I was pretty nervous about attending, because I’m me and they’re them. By “them” I mean the population of Washington, half of whom tried to pack into a very lovely home that I think is fire-coded for 200 people. Plus, a month ago you could’ve said the name “Tucker Carlson” and I would’ve been like, “Crosswits, right?” Whereas now I think he’s the greatest human being who has ever lived or ever will. It’s all happening way too fast, is my point.
Back to my intrinsic lack of self-worth. For eight years I’ve been sitting in a dark room in Indianapolis all by myself, only occasionally wearing more than underpants and a John Deere cap, making clicky-clacky keyboard noises and getting a screen-tan. You might say a big-time Washington party isn’t really my element. But one thing I’m learning fast about this burg is that if you can fake it well enough, you can get away with a hell of a lot. I mean, just look at Tucker.
So I went into it thinking, “Okay, I’m not just going to stand in the corner. These guys kidnapped me for a reason, so I refuse to act like what I am right now: a bewildered manchild who’s convinced everybody hates me for any number of arcane reasons. I’m gonna cowboy up, I’m gonna shake hands with people I’ve only ever seen on TV and/or the Internet, and by God: I’m gonna like it.”
Hey, two outta three ain’t bad. The evening is a total blur because I need to see an opthamologist, but here’s a partial list of some of my lovely memories:
- To feel the touch of Paul Begala’s hand was, until last night, only the most forbidden of fantasies. So I got to check that one off my list. He and Tucker used to co-host a television program, and I think he’s done some other stuff since then.
- David Frum seems like a pleasant enough fellow. His gentle smile made me feel at ease.
- The very best part of the evening was meeting so many people I’ve known for years, but only online. It’s impossible to talk about it without sounding like a self-centered namedropper, but that’s okay because I am one. It was great to meet people like Mary Katharine Ham, Matt Welch and his lovely wife Emmanuelle Richard, Michael Moynihan (“TREACH!!”), Nick Gillespie, RiShawn Biddle, Eli Lake, Mark and Mollie Hemingway, Katherine Mangu-Ward, and a bunch of other people I’m probably forgetting and who will now despise me. I admire writers. Especially when they admire me back.
- Steve Hayes’ beard is even more awesome in real life. I was thinking about growing mine back, but I would not win that battle. His beard would kick my beard in the beard.
- I also met a few people who said they attended the party for the express purpose of meeting me. I’d tell you their names, but I’m so far above them now that it doesn’t matter. Psyche! It was so tremendously flattering. I’m terrible at accepting compliments, but I’m trying to get better at it. (I know that when I’ve introduced myself to people I admire and they were dismissive of their own work, it wasn’t a good feeling. It made me think, “Maybe you don’t care, but I don’t share your opinion. I wish you’d respect that.” Then again, what else is Carrot Top supposed to say?) So, a big thank you to everyone who was nice to me.
- Perhaps the moment that gave me the most pause was having to jostle Scooter Libby to get to the keg out back. I guess you could say I scooted past Scooter, LOL! But you probably wouldn’t say that, and neither would I.
- I stuck to beer for most of the night, despite the exhortations of Matt Labash to hurl bourbon down my own throat like a skid row bum who just lost his only friend, a scruffy little mutt named Mr. Piddles. Everybody was holding wine glasses and being all fancy and stuff, and I was bumbling around with a red plastic beer cup. Oh well. I found it comforting. “This is all I deserve.”
- And then there was the general debauchery and low conduct of the Daily Caller staff, about which I will not write on advice of our attorneys.
And stuff like that. It was really great. I met people. I had fun. I got to stand in the presence of Christopher Hitchens’ CO2 emissions. I’m glad I was forced to go. Maybe I’ll get to go to another one of those things sometime, if I don’t get myself fired.
For more on the party, check out SnarkInfested, Politico, and The Hill. And don’t worry; I’m sure I’ll get this confessional stuff out of my system eventually. I went 8 years without talking about myself, so it’s all bursting out at once. Try cold water and hydrogen peroxide to remove the stains.
I will now end this post in mid-