On the owner's birthday I wanted to do something extra special for him so I spent all day making a cake for my gogo dancer* to pop out of so she could sing "Happy Birthday Mr. President." Sometimes when you spend alot of time on something for drunk people it fails to pan out. [At the fake wedding we were supposed to have a girl run into the room at "I now pronounce you..." and scream, "No! Wait! Stop! I can't let this go on." ("You can't do this to me here!" I scream back.) "No, Brendan everyone needs to know the truth. I love--this woman!" But she was outside smoking and missed the whole thing.]

She could not have done a better job. The owner looked perplexed at the cake as everyone gathered around. When the music started she broke through the paper top and stretched only one dainty hand out to him. He grabbed it as though she were a genie and stared in just as much wonderment.

For me this is the day where it became official that the lastnightsparty.com kids became finally too jaded to enjoy themselves without getting paid from a liquor company. So where we should have an amazing picture to hang on the wall, he instead turned around and took a picture of the amatuer papparazzi.

The dancer is actually a really good friend of ours who may be the sweetest girl south of 14th. She's also an obscenely talented musician (Lady Gaga) who just played Lallopalooza but when she came back she played a free show for my sunday night party just to be awesome. Her voice is so beautiful that one time I held a flashlight down her throat to see her vocal chords.

Her stuff is up here and here and she even has a song called "Paparazzi." This is starting to sound like Lisa Simpson talking to her mother about boys.



*I can't help feeling like an asshole when I say it this way, as though at the end of the night she folds into my record bag.