The author poses with The Frisky editor Amelia McWhat’s-her-twat.
Opportunities like this arise maybe once or twice in the lifespan of a blog.
Folks, last night I had a chance to hang out with my gal pals at The Frisky at an exclusive (read: guest-list only) event in Chelsea. It was some kind of party to celebrate autumn. I didn’t quite understand it, either. But there was a two-hour open bar window from 7pm to 9pm, so I figured I’d scope it out and maybe stalk Judy McGuire, Wendy Atterberry or Amelia McDonell-Parry. Let me tell you, as I walked towards the entrance to The Gates on 8th Avenue last night, I felt like a true douchebag for the first time in my life. The loud music inside and the look of my fellow partygoers was all the evidence I needed to decide I had crossed over into some alternate, fratty, universe.
Sadly, the open bar consisted only of vodka drinks. My “whiskey on the rocks” was no good here. Unless someone was going to pay for my drinks (and in a room full of two hundred chicks, that was unlikely), I was stuck with “vodka tonic” for the next two hours. As soon as I grabbed my first drink, I realized that I didn’t know anybody at the party. The only person I would recognize would be Amelia, so in order to find Judy or Wendy I’d have to find her and then cling to her for dear life until she pawned me off on somebody else. I started wondering what I’d do if I were on an episode of The Pick-Up Artist. Would I run out of the club crying or would I open a “set” and talk to a bunch of strangers?
None of that was necessary. Within a minute of my getting a drink, this lady named…shit, I forgot her name. Tina? Trudy? Tracey. It was Tracey. She approached me and introduced herself. I noticed she had two drinks in her hands so I asked if double-fisting was a hobby of hers (double entendre alert!). She said she needed a chaser for the vodka, so I astutely ascertained that she was Jewish. Only Jewish girls go to a bar and get a vodka drink, then a fruit drink with which to chase it. I asked what she does, and she responded that she is a Life Coach and a dating expert. When I hurriedly inquired whether or not she wrote for The Frisky, her answer was “No.” She said her husband works for Time Warner, so I countered by saying my girlfriend is an actress. I don’t know, it felt like she was maybe bragging a little so I had to take her down a peg.
Before I could fit another word in, I was approached by a young guy in a grey sweater. My first instinct was that someone alerted the cologne-wearin’ thug contingent at the party to my presence. As it turned out, the guy in the sweater was my best friend from middle school, Dan! How fucking random is that? Dan and I got more drinks and chatted about the last 10 years of our lives. He’s engaged, he works for some website, he was there with his friend. A little chunky Asian chick who looked like Margaret Cho burst into our conversation and Dan left me hanging so I had to deal with her drunken advances. At one point I asked her if she had any friends with her, and she pointed to a group of three guys on a nearby couch. She said, “Those are my friends, but they’re busy hitting on some girls.” Funny, because when I looked over at the couch I just saw three Indian guys sitting there alone. Dan had the presence of mind to sneak away and strike up a conversation with another girl, so as soon as I could I joined them in conversation. I ended the conversation with Margaret Cho with a swift reference to my girlfriend. When I joined Dan, he introduced me as his old friend from Jersey. As it turned out that girl and her friend were from our hometown, which was the very last thing I wanted to talk about, so I figured I’d get two more vodka tonics and finally make my move on Amelia.
I spotted her as she walked by towards the back of the club. I took about thirty seconds to figure out the creepiest salutation imaginable. When my idea came to me, I strolled over to where she was conversing with somebody. I put my hand on the small of her back and whispered into her ear, “Amelia. I’ve been watching you.”
At first she seemed genuinely freaked out, but in a matter of seconds I sensed that glimmer of recognition. We greeted one another and chatted for five minutes about who know’s what. I asked about Wendy and Judy. She said Wendy was there, but Judy was not. I demanded an introduction and meeting with Wendy, but she told me Wendy might not know who I am. As it turns out, Amelia is the only girl at The Frisky who is vain enough to have a Google Alert set to her name. Still, I wanted the chance to say hi to Wendy and tell her how much she sucks. Before that could happen, Amelia got whisked away by someone. We agreed to talk more later.
I spotted Tracey and her husband. There were some questions in need of answers, specifically how one makes a career out of life coaching. Tracey told me that she counsels people to help them become motivated, give some direction, and answer dating-related questions. I told her about the time I tried to hire an Intern under the guise of my being a life coach. Then she handed me her business card. At first I was insulted, but then she told me that she has a public access call-in show on Monday afternoons. Jackpot! I know what I’m doing next Monday on my lunch break!
Oh, and while I was talking to Tracey and her husband Amelia got up to give a speech. I booed loudly. Then someone else started to speak and I lost interest.
At 8:58pm I realized I had only two minutes more to take advantage of the open bar, so I rushed over and got two more vodka tonics. Dan and his friend were there getting more drinks, so we spoke more about kids we knew in high school. A girl named Kim who works for The Frisky stumbled towards us. She slurred something like, “What’s your drink?” and I said bourbon, but I wasn’t going to pay for it. She told me she was drinking white wine spritzers. Yikes. I tried to get her to buy me a drink but I already had two drinks in my hands. She probably would have, she looked pretty wasted. I asked her what it was like to work at The Frisky. She said it was fun, but nobody talks to each other. She said everyone at the magazine is a nerd and they’re sitting on front of their computers all day and they rarely interact. That kind of ruined my fantasy of all the stupid cunts writing bad dating articles and then having pillow fights and eating each other out.
Dan and his friend left. I found Amelia again and we talked more about what it was like working at The Frisky. I don’t remember what she said because I was starting to get drunk. I asked why she doesn’t hire me to be the male perspective and she got offended that I didn’t know her friend (John?) already does that. Look, I just read the articles with the dumbest titles. I don’t scour the site because I think it’s interesting. I only recognize Amelia, Wendy and Judy because they’ve written some terrible articles. How am I supposed to know they already employ another guy. Oh well. I’m still going to write for The Frisky. Just you wait. It’s going to be amazing.
While we were chatting a photographer came around and took our photos. There was also some kind of D-list celebrity girl there, an MTV VJ or Gossip Girl or something, who looked like a sixteen year old whore and kept elbowing Amelia as we chatted. The photographer took her photo with a bottle of whatever the free vodka was at the party. After he snapped the little slut’s picture I asked her if she had a problem with Amelia and yelled at her for knocking into her every time she walked by. The chick, surprisingly, didn’t roll her eyes and walk away. The three of us talked for a minute and then she probably rolled her eyes and walked away.
By this time, I had no chance to meet Wendy or Judy. The latter never showed and the former probably left with the throng that disappeared once the open bar closed. Amelia bought me a whiskey on the rocks. Everything after that is a little fuzzy. I bought another drink because apparently it’s degrading if a girl buys a guy a drink and doesn’t get one in return. I honestly don’t remember where the conversation went from there. Some other girls from the website joined us on a couch and felt the urge to share with me their “numbers” — how many men they’ve slept with — probably because they were afraid I thought they were prudes. I really wanted to meet Judy McGuire. She’s got to be a real pig in real life. I just know it.
Another whiskey on the rocks and then there were only about ten people left in the club. I needed to catch a train (thank God I didn’t drive into the city last night) so I stumbled my way to the PATH and made my train with a minute or two to spare. But I almost passed out on the train and missed my stop in Jersey. Whoops. I got home and tried to talk to my family about seeing my old school friend, but they both pointed out that I was speaking gibberish. The words sounded alright in my head but I was way too drunk to actually annunciate them. I passed out a few minutes later.
Things I Learned About The Frisky
– They supposedly get really good web traffic. I was told Swan Fungus has a “little dick” compared to the women at The Frisky when it comes to audience size.
– Nobody talks to each other in the office.
– Everybody uses IM.
– Amelia McWhat’s-her-twat isn’t as dumb as I thought she’d be. She’s not that bad. We had a pretty good time!
– Judy McGuire wrote a book. How the fuck does that idiot get published and yet I can’t?
– Judy McGuire doesn’t care enough to go to a Frisky party.
– Julie Gerstein and Jessica Wakeman are elusive. Actually, those retards totally slipped my mind when I asked who from the staff was at the party. I would have loved to make fun of those chicks.
– They have a male writer on staff.
– The ladies of The Frisky might write like fourth graders, but they can hold their booze and (claim to) sleep around!
– The Frisky, and everyone who works there, still sucks shit.
