The Yahoo.com Internet Party in SoHo

...and how I used it to get sloppy drunk


Right, so three martinis, a vodka and tonic, and four Heinekens (sp?) later.


Yahoo, the Internet Search Engine.


A party, right, open bar.


Sponsored, by, yeah, Yahoo. The Internet search directory. Yahoo.


An open bar.

Okay, so there's this one woman, P.R. for Yahoo, from San Francisco.

This is in SoHo, but she's from San Francisco. Wearing a red fake shiny shirt, you know the kind.

Right, so three martinis, a vodka and tonic, and four Heinekins (Heinekins? Heinikens?).


So we're watching ("we're" being an appellative that refers both myself and to, oh, let's call him Eli), we're watching, oh, let's call him Brad, the sales guy from work, sell our company, and Brad, like a walking miracle, says, to some woman:

"I don't know anyone here."

And she says, smiling, perky, "I don't either."

And business cards are ecsahcend. ("Exchanged", whoops, a little light on the keyboard), and there's an open bar, and these ATROCIOUS mozarella snacks, except they're not snacks, they're an appetizer, and I've had four Heinekins, which I can't spell, and that's a beer I hate, except I've already had like three martinis and a vodka with tonic. So it tastes fine, in its green bottle. But the appetizers taste like baby snails wrapped in tires. And Eli and I watch Brad, as he picks up sales lead after sales lead with incomparable smoothness, business cards fluttering out from his hands.

And all we can talk about is the "talent," by which Eli means the sexual attractiveness of the women there, by which we mean the way that they wear shiny shirts with pokey nipples. I don't call it "talent." I call it "quality." And there's a lot of quality. Just a stunning amount. More than I've seen at any party before. I mean, I don't mean to be objectifying women, but I'm kind of, well, and drunk. And it just happens. Like, sure, I went to see The Wings of the Dove, because it was based on a Henry James novel, right, but also because Helena Bonham Carter was naked in it, and I just didn't want to miss that. And Brad, stopping by between sales contacts, notes it thus: "We need a sexy receptionist in the office," he says. "It's just necessary. It's how the business works. We need a tits-and-ass receptionist, let's face it. People expect that." Brad moves off, into sales-land. Eli and I nod our heads. "He's pretty goddamned sexist," says Eli, "but he's right."

It was time to go. We get 10? 10,000? blocks? and Eli realizes he left his scarf ("I like that scarf!"), and we have to go back, and outside the club, with all the New Media people inside, I get on the F train and return to Brooklyn. There is a long wait at the Broadway-Lafayette Station, but I have these religious pamphlets in my pocket that I read over and over. "Jesus will save YOU!" Wow. So he will. And this is it, this is what it means to be NEW MEDIA COOL, the Yahoo Holiday Bash. To be let behind the velvet rope and into the very-trendy bar in SoHo, even though I'm a big geek and I only make around thirty. I wish you'd all been there, all the people who've written in. You would have found it fucking Hi-larious.

There's more to tell, except I need to get to bed, because there's Internet World tomorrow, with another open bar. And this time, my company's SPONSORING. So I have to be there, drinking, drinking, drinking. Yeah.




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About the author: I've been running this website from 1997. For a living I write stories and essays, program computers, edit things, and help people launch online publications. (LinkedIn). I wrote a novel. I was an editor at Harper's Magazine for five years; then I was a Contributing Editor; now I am a free agent. I was also on NPR's All Things Considered for a while. I still write for The Morning News, and some other places.

If you have any questions for me, I am very accessible by email. You can email me at ford@ftrain.com and ask me things and I will try to answer. Especially if you want to clarify something or write something critical. I am glad to clarify things so that you can disagree more effectively.


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© 1974-2011 Paul Ford


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