Arrive at Marquee and coast past doorman on the coattails of a buddy from Fox & Friends – eager to celebrate the 100th episode of a show I’m not familiar with.
Large-breasted nymph lets door close in face.
Marquee’s excellent design has anyone entering the club immediately fighting through everyone waiting at the bar. As all of humanity stands before us and a drink, a decision is made to head to the back and go upstairs.
The cleavage-to-pretension ratio is 1:1. Crowd is comprised mostly of high maintenance poseur females and low-wattage poseur males. Clumsy and armed with size 13 feet, I scuff and stumble my way though the unforgiving masses.
The crowd is generally slow and/or unable to budge, but sprinkled with aggressive types who aren’t afraid to manhandle people out of the way. Two attractive women who I wouldn’t like to speak with plow through us as if we were in a burning Shanghai train station. I have brush-up sex with approximately 34 men and women on the way to the staircase.
The music stops and a comedian with a shrill voice begins to address the crowd. The shrill voice is amplified by Marquee’s in-house audio system which is designed to maximize the Tweeterist aspect while minimizing the Wooferbility. The end result is a high-pitched, ear-curdling whine that no one seems to be listening to.
The shrill comedian swears a lot and kicks the sponsor in the crotch: “How about a hand for the sponsor of this party, Old Navy? Ironic, because none of us would be caught dead in their stuff!” The audience laughs and I look around for a grimacing sponsor.
Once upstairs I am able to eat something that passes by on a tray. It was on the end of a skewer.
The long line for drinks means I have time to speak with my neighbors. I chat with a gay guy about the acoustics of the place. He tells me the crowd is Reality Show Wannabe. He’s right on the money, and I realize all gay guys are sassy like Mario Cantone.
Some guy is standing so close behind me that I’m either having my wallet stolen or being gently sodomized.
The shrill comedian stops talking and the TV monitors begin playing a celebrity tribute to Best Week Ever. The crowd breaks into laughter when a morbidly obese, worn out Sally Struthers appears and congratulates the show on its 100th episode. She looks like death warmed over, re-battered and fried.
I finish my tepid white wine. “Do you mind if I leave?” I ask my friend. “No,” says some girl.
The tribute ends and the DJ kicks in. The too-loud stereo system begins blasting a mix of Usher and Nirvana. Or maybe Pearl Jam. Whatever it was, it was a good get me the hell out of here theme.
We begin fighting our way back downstairs.
We pause momentarily, but the crowd is too unbearable and the lines too long to consider fighting for another drink. Some brute with Landis levels of testosterone plows past. We decide to leave.
I notice that the party theme is Best Party Ever.
As we exit we’re handed a gift bag consisting of Old Navy flip-flops, a coupon for free Old Navy Jeans and a VH1 CD of artists I’m unfamiliar with – with the exception of Nelly Furtado and the girl who has an album at Starbucks.