For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to attend the mediabistro.com “Magazines We Miss” event last night, which was purportedly a party to celebrate the memory of some of the mags that folded over the last year (Mademoiselle, Talk, Brill’s Content), but was really one gigantic schmoozefest. A fellow former coworker Lara and I headed over there, mainly out of curiousity, and were appalled to find that mediabistro was not buying the drinks. We were. Schmoozing, therefore, was at a minimum. Five dollar Corona in hand, I posed for a picture with two ex-Brillians and another gal from Talk. I’m hoping this image does not appear on the mediabistro website. I did see a few people that I haven’t seen in at least a year — people who I liked on the job, but lost touch with over time. Post-schmoozefest, Lara and I headed over to a vodka-tasting party in the far west Village — just past that beautiful elevated train that I loved to spy on while working on W26th street last year. (Who knew there was a Little West 12th Street?) Let’s not address the fact that I was at a party where the majority accent was not American, and a miniature greyhound pup in a maroon fleecy sweater hopped from lap to lap as well-dressed twentysomethings sipped on a newly-invented yet-to-be marketed herb-infused peach vodka at no cost to themselves. At some point, I finally gathered my wits about me, stumbled down the three flights of stairs and out into the streets of the meatpacking district. I somehow made it across all those cobblestones without breaking both my ankles, and wobbled to the subway station at 14th and Sixth, making it home before midnight for prime carbohydrate ingestion and sleep, sleep, sleep.

In other news, Don Share has a poem in the current issue of the Paris Review called “Grit.”