Philebrity: We Can’t Win For Losing!
It’s not every day you win something, and it’s even more rare to win something that other people want more than you. So when it all began with a simple email ‚Äî “Hey, did you guys know you got Best of Philly?” ‚Äî from there, we knew it was just going to get more retarded. But a really fun kind of retarded. Sort of like an informational scavenger hunt. You know, like journalists do. Eventually, the facts checked out: Philebrity got the “Best Blog” nod from Philadelphia Magazine. And so it came to pass that Philebrity wound up at that venerable wet-but-loveable dog of a fete, the Best of Philly Party.
Joey Sweeney reports: After all these years in the Philly media game, somehow we’d never been. So it was hard to gauge just what kind of nonsense we were up for. The short answer to that question was: Mild nonsense, with a good chance of John DeBella. The first thing we noticed when we got to the door was that somewhere along the line, something had gone horribly wrong with the guest list. Like, really, really wrong. Which was good, since we were neither invited, nor had we had the time earlier in the day to call the RSVP line at PhillyMag to get someone on the phone and act like we were. So that was good news for us, but truly bad news for the party at large: At the front, there were a small group of party planners forlornly gazing at two Rubbermaid tubs of pre-made ID tags for the winners, piled on top of each other, silver neck-strings popping out like a kind of evil quasi-celeb electric spaghetti. If you wanted to know why in the name of God someone was at this party, you were going to have to ask them and hope like hell that they got to the party before 7pm or whenever it was exactly that the guest list and sign-in went crazy go boom.
At this point, it might be a good idea to mention that the Best of Philly party was held this year at the World Cafe Live. It’s hard to know just what to say about that, other than this is kind of a bad place to have anything that isn’t a… um… Cosi. In keeping with the “World Cafe” vibe, some totally with-it party planner had gone into a time machine to a street fair in Madison, Wisconsin in 1991 and come back with a bunch of street performers, such as Bobby Flute and Johnny Drumcircle over here, who were doing their thing right there for you in the stairwell and out in the hallways so you could watch them and not give them money just like you did back in the day. There were also a couple of more au courant looking troubadours milling around, seemingly knowing full well that when they get interviewed for Q magazine a few years from now, they will definitely have the “worst gig ever” question nailed. Meanwhile, off to the side, there was a guy with dreads filling in a big, pre-sketched painting of Bob Marley. We don’t imagine Bob Marley does a lot of crying in heaven, but shit, into each life a little rain must fall. For the rest of the party, all I could think about was Bob Marley crying. That’s some fucked up shit.
Once you actually entered the party rooms proper, you were confronted with a confusing and potentially angry-making thing. Each bar was split into two service areas: One half that was only serving a martini-esque drink that you did not want, and another half that was only serving a martini-esque drink that you did not want. This was because PhillyMag seemed to whore out the bar spaces to various vodka and gin sponsors, which is fine, but if you wanted anything at all outside of liquid Sex in The City, buddy, you’re shit out of luck. Beer is for the common man! Didn’t you win Best of Philly? Shouldn’t you already know that? There was also some “world street cuisine” being served, and this also reminded us of 1991. Temple of the Dog! Tongue piercings!
Then there was the entertainment. Somehow, some other party planner convinced original bands (including one that included the PhillyMag publisher’s niece doing a sort of Shirley Manson/Garbage thing, natch) that this also would be a good gig. Wrong-o. Nobody was paying attention. But this girl over here had a really nice outift on. This kind of milling around went on for a while. Even though you’d expect that the Best of Philly party would be a two-ton megaton bomb of schmooze, this was not really the case. Mostly, people stood around in little groups chattering away with people they already knew. The metaphor for the city in general could be lost on no one.
Finally, bossman Larry Platt came out onstage and started testifyin’ ’bout the reason for the season. Somebody made a joke about how he’s bald, but you know Larry is just totally diesel and loooooves being bald. Compulsive headshaver, no doubt about it. Anyway, it was Larry’s job to bring out the people who would then bring out the people who would give giant-sized checks to other people who deserved them. Sadly, Philebrity was not in this elite group. While recovering from this cruel news, we got some good news! Holy awesome, it’s Larry Mendte! And man, if you don’t love Larry Mendte, you must be some kind of fucking nihilist. Anyway, they gave out the Best Philadelphians award to the nice couple who did that whole Alex’s Lemonade Stand and people chattered right the hell over their really very nice and honest acceptance speech, until an older guy in the back yelled “SHUT THE HELL UP YOU PEOPLE, THE LADY IS TALKING!” This was sad because at first, the Alex’s Lady thought she had a heckler, but in reality, it was awesome because it finally shut up all the Main Line Leatherface Trophy Wives who comprised the lion’s share of, well, everything that was wrong with this party, really.
After that, they gave a big fat check to Jane Golden from the Mural Arts Committee, and she was all like, “Boo-ya! I’m totally buying a big fat bag of weed with this money! AND an iPod! SUCKERS!” And then that was pretty much it. We saw Stephen Starr (honestly, the only person we were girlishly giddy about seeing), Michela Majoun (who’d lost her voice), Jerry Blavat (fucking awesome) and then that girl from MySpace who always stares daggers at our one friend and then finally, Larry Mendte! So I pull my most awesome move of the night: I roll up on Larry like I’m Pat Croce and I’m like, “Yo, Larry, Joey Sweeney from Philebrity.com. How do, dawg? Mind if I snap a pic of you with my girl? She’s a big fan.” Larry complies, I slip him a 20, and off we go to Tattooed Mom’s to get blitzed on whatever the hell kind of booze we like. Winners never quit, and quitters never win. And boy, it’s like the Mellow Legend says: This sure is a sweet old bitch of a town.
