If there's one universal dream that we all share as young twenty/thirtysomethings, it's the hope that one day we'll rise out of the ranks of free nights at the Echo and drunken make out sessions with our old roommate's ex-lover who played in that one band and into the glamourous world of Hollywood. And not the crappy clubs and socialites Hollywood, we're talking the George Clooney Hollywood. That mythical place where our ample knowledge of Carl Jung, global warming and Yves St. Laurent would be duly appreciated. Where Orlando Bloom would chat with us about Midlake and Reese Witherspoon would compliment our shoes. Yes, that Hollywood.
And on Sunday night friends, that dream came true.
In a surreptitious twist of fate, VF EIC Graydon Carter decided to let three no name hipsters into the Vanity Fair party to "liven up the demographic." And we were those hipsters. The following account is not an attempt to brag about our great fortune of being at the right place at the right time. No. This is just an honest story about dreams coming true. And if you happen to find pangs of jealousy swirling in your loins because maybe Clooney had his hand on our knee for five minutes and invited us to Dan Tana's next week, well, that's your problem. We're just the messengers. The totally lucky, superior and clearly divinely blessed messengers.
Deep breath in.
OK.
First off, chances are you'll never meet God.
Number two, we're pretty sure Oprah is close enough. We're also sure her cocktail ring could pay off our college loans...and our children's...and their children's...and their children's children's children's plus a few Cambodian babies'.
B.) The decor was amazing. It's hard to describe but we'll put it this way: everything was sparkly and nothing was from Ikea.
Basically, this was no free night at Spaceland dear friends, this was the big time. We're talking gold tipped cigarettes not Parliament Lights. Although we did see some of those (Hi Kirsten).
What else...the food was dainty. We saw a few of our friends serving. That was cool. We tried not to act bougie about it because y'know, it was a little awk seeing them working while we're throwing back top shelf, but y'know what? Their time will come.
Um...and...
Graydon's hair. Amazing. Nicole and Gwyneth. Queens of the flat iron. Talked to Al Gore about
energy saving light bulbs. Casually mentioned that we drive a Prius (actually a '92 Accord BUT it's the thought that counts). Got drunk. Called Helen Mirren "a quintagenarian sex pot" to her face. She responded by saying "Quintagenarian isn't a word". Then winked. Sweet! Got some digits. Not telling you whose (rhymes with Shmosling). Told Will Smith we know all the words to the Fresh Prince theme song. Did a little karaoke with Carrell. Busted out un poco de nuestro high school espanol con Gael García Bernal. Took some swag (because you know the IRS ain't coming after our broke asses). And made plans to chill at the Coppola winery next week.
Guess that's it.
Clearly we're forgetting some stuff and we'll totally post our pics once the dude from Wireimage sends them to us but the point is this:
1.) Dreams come true.
And.
2.) We're awesome.
And on Sunday night friends, that dream came true.
In a surreptitious twist of fate, VF EIC Graydon Carter decided to let three no name hipsters into the Vanity Fair party to "liven up the demographic." And we were those hipsters. The following account is not an attempt to brag about our great fortune of being at the right place at the right time. No. This is just an honest story about dreams coming true. And if you happen to find pangs of jealousy swirling in your loins because maybe Clooney had his hand on our knee for five minutes and invited us to Dan Tana's next week, well, that's your problem. We're just the messengers. The totally lucky, superior and clearly divinely blessed messengers.Deep breath in.
OK.
First off, chances are you'll never meet God.
Number two, we're pretty sure Oprah is close enough. We're also sure her cocktail ring could pay off our college loans...and our children's...and their children's...and their children's children's children's plus a few Cambodian babies'.
B.) The decor was amazing. It's hard to describe but we'll put it this way: everything was sparkly and nothing was from Ikea.
Basically, this was no free night at Spaceland dear friends, this was the big time. We're talking gold tipped cigarettes not Parliament Lights. Although we did see some of those (Hi Kirsten).
What else...the food was dainty. We saw a few of our friends serving. That was cool. We tried not to act bougie about it because y'know, it was a little awk seeing them working while we're throwing back top shelf, but y'know what? Their time will come.
Um...and...
Graydon's hair. Amazing. Nicole and Gwyneth. Queens of the flat iron. Talked to Al Gore about
energy saving light bulbs. Casually mentioned that we drive a Prius (actually a '92 Accord BUT it's the thought that counts). Got drunk. Called Helen Mirren "a quintagenarian sex pot" to her face. She responded by saying "Quintagenarian isn't a word". Then winked. Sweet! Got some digits. Not telling you whose (rhymes with Shmosling). Told Will Smith we know all the words to the Fresh Prince theme song. Did a little karaoke with Carrell. Busted out un poco de nuestro high school espanol con Gael García Bernal. Took some swag (because you know the IRS ain't coming after our broke asses). And made plans to chill at the Coppola winery next week.Guess that's it.
Clearly we're forgetting some stuff and we'll totally post our pics once the dude from Wireimage sends them to us but the point is this:
1.) Dreams come true.
And.
2.) We're awesome.
