As you all know, my newest, and only, goal in life is to become a famous socialite. I’ve recently been putting in a lot of effort, which is highly unlike me, to accomplish this goal as soon as possible. For starters, I’ve got this blog (and a book deal in the works) as well as the fact that I hang out with reality television stars on a pretty regular basis (once). I’ve also begun to attend other bars, before ending up at Felson’s of course, in an attempt to draw more attention to myself and my socialite lifestyle.
I started out my night with the intention of writing about Obama’s recent visit to Broughton and how awesome my family’s healthcare is. Earlier this week I had planned on stirring up some controversy about Obama’s visit, but I didn’t want my parents’ lawyers to have to deal with getting me out of trouble with the Secret Service (again). For now, I’ll just say that it was about time Obama came and explained his new healthcare “plan” to the people who deserved an explanation the most, wealthy ITBers who already have great healthcare. Obama mixed two things I love, Broughton and vehemently arguing about stuff that I don’t know anything about. I’ll go into this more when I lay out my own healthcare plan.
My quiet night in came to an abrupt end when a friend from out of town said he was out drinking. Obviously, I dropped what I was doing, which at the time was sitting on the couch watching Entourage reruns on Demand, and went down to some place on Gelwood South called Havanna’s. I figured it would be good to show the public that my socialite status allows me to get blackout any night of the week. Thankfully, there weren’t any gel heads at the bar. However, the lack of gel heads wasn’t necessarily an indication that this bar was an acceptable place to go, since there actually weren’t any other people in the bar…..at all. I was pretty livid that no one was going to see how awesome I was at playing darts and taking shots on a random week night. Just when I thought things weren’t going my way, I got a sign that all my hard work is paying off.
First, I received an e-mail on my iPhone notifying me that Hadley, of the show Southern Belles, decided to accept my Facebook friend request. I thought it was odd that it took her so long (about a month) to do so. I can understand playing it cool for a little while on Facebook, because everyone knows that you need to wait at least 24 hours before accepting or responding to any friend requests, messages, or wall posts in order to remain cool and tough. But not responding for over a month made me begin to question my socialite status. Thinking she might need her memory refreshed, I sent her the following message:
Sorry for partying
Between Hadley Hartz and You
July 29 at 10:17pm
Hadley,
Thought you should check out this recap of what happened when I went out in Louisville http://www.itbinsider.com/?p=516. We met at some bar, I can’t remember the name, but I was the guy buying jäger bombs at 3:45am. I’m pretty sure you wanted to have late night at our hotel, but my friends and I were too drunk to even find our way back there. Sorry for partyin’.
William Needham Finley IV
A few minutes later, I got an e-mail from my IT guy telling me that Hadley had commented on the Southern Belles post. He verified that the IP address was from Louisville, Kentucky and said that he was positive she was the one who had left the following comment:
37. Hey… thanks for sending me this link, and for the bombs!
HH
Hadley, July 31, 2009
That made it official. I’m now actual friends with a realty television star. Actual friends, not just bar friends (which are friends you never hang out with outside of the bar, yet you both act like you’ve known each other for decades just because you buy each other shots to avoid the awkward pause that arises after you each say “What’s up? How’s it goin?”). It’s all coming together.
“Where will this lead?” you ask. If all goes well, I should develop (even more of) a drug problem as I spend more and more time with these other famous socialites. They’ll probably come visit Felson’s pretty soon, since I told Hadley all about it when we were hanging out in Louisville. I may even consider breaking my “don’t date until you’re 28” rule, since a lot of celebrities get attention because of who they’re dating. I know what you’re thinking, “What the hell William? She’s not ITB?! If you don’t marry from a select group of families, your kids won’t be able to have full names that are just a mix of Raleigh landmarks or institutions!”. I’m not retarded, I know that I’m supposed to marry into a select group of families, ensuring that our children would be able to add another prestigious name to the family tree.
But if you think about it, Louisville does have it’s similarities to Raleigh, both good and bad. 4th Street, their version of Gelwood South, is full of gel heads and girls with tramp stamps who have to deal with the hassle of making a decision on which bar to go to out of the countless options available to them. Yet Louisville is home to the Kentucky Derby, a place where the wealthy elite overdress in order to make ridiculous fashion statements while also betting on horses and losing tons of money within minutes, which is a lot like Felson’s. They’ve got midgets in pastel colored shirts riding big dumb animals, while we’ve got sorostitutes who end up ridin’ dirty on the dance floor after some jager bombs and a few slaps on the ass. Even their drinks are what some people (not me) would consider expensive. You could run up quite a tab ordering $1,000 mint juleps that are chilled with ice from the Arctic Circle (wherever that is).
Don’t worry, as long as I’m associating with socialites that have at least some class, I think I should be alright. I realize I’m going to have to break a few of my personal rules and sacrifice some of my “values” in order to become famous. That’s just the price I’ll have to pay during my rise to the top.
Over the last two weeks, Robin has made me realize that there is a serious problem with this blog. You guessed it, it’s free. Any literate commoner or gel head can get on the internet and read about my life and then try to emulate all the elitist shit I do. The last thing I need is a bunch of commoners trying to be me. There’s nothing I’m more opposed to than handouts, especially handouts of ITB knowledge to the unworthy (poor people). Forrest told me that he has to pay a monthly fee for a lot of the websites he goes to, but I couldn’t figure out how to set something like that up. After realizing that I couldn’t make people pay to read my site in the same way that Forrest has to pay for certain websites, I decided that publishing a book would be the best way to prevent poor people from reading about me. The only problem is that I’ve never really been a big fan of books. There are too many words and not enough insecure girls to take down. Plus, I was never really good at reading and I actually didn’t learn how to read until I was 9 years old. No, this wasn’t due to any of the learning disabilities that I claim to have in order to get prescription drugs and extended time on tests. I was just lazy and never saw a real benefit to reading. Finally, my parents offered to pay me for each book I read (of course I just read the CliffsNotes and took their money anyway) and I tore through the Bookmobile the next time it came to Lacy.
While preventing commoners from finding out sacred ITB knowledge, this book will also help me become a more famous socialite. I’ve heard of famous people writing their “memoirs” but I don’t know what that means, so I’ll probably just do an autobiography. At first I thought a book about all the ITB SUVs might be boring to some, although a lot has gone on in the back of my Tahoe, in the front seat of my Tahoe, on the console of my Tahoe, on the roof of my Tahoe and so on. Then Forrest explained that I just needed to write about my own life. I thought about doing an ITB version of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books but the reader would always end up at Felson’s, so it wouldn’t really be that suspenseful. Writing a book detailing my life is the first step to achieving my new goal of becoming a famous socialite.
I haven’t always wanted to be a famous socialite. I’m perfectly content with just being an ITB socialite. However, I now know that becoming famous is the only solution to some recent problems that my parents have created for me. According to them, my “reckless spending” and the “fact that I don’t understand the value of money” has really taken a hit on my bank account. Don’t worry, I still have my 2nd trust fund, but my douchebag parents aren’t going to just let me have it anymore. They said if I’m not “gainfully employed” with a real job by the time I’m 30, they’re going to give half of my hard earned inheritance to my sister. I confronted them about this and stated the obvious, “Mom, Dad, you can throw around your big accounting words like “gainfully employed” but I do have a job. Do you think it’s easy being a socialite? You should be proud of me for not having to go to rehab (yet). Also, I write a blog, so I’m an author, which is a job.” They quickly disagreed, “Your blog isn’t even funny, has cost us thousands of dollars in lawsuits, and your mother’s terrified that her friends will find out about it and kick her out of garden club, yes the GARDEN CLUB!” That was low. I countered with, “But LC from The Hills is a socialite and her shitty book is #1 on the NY Times best seller list!” Confused, they asked, ”Who the hell is LC? What is the Hills? North Hills? What are you on right now?” Clearly, comparing myself to LC wasn’t going to help my argument. It was time to divert the attention from myself and throw my sister under the bus. I reminded them that Mary Ivy Laura is just going to marry rich and be a stay at home mom who plays tennis at the club and shops at North Hills and Cameron Village all day after her fashion career inevitably fails. They didn’t think anything was wrong with that and stood by their ultimatum. I tried again, “But the words “fashion” and “career” should never be used in the same sentence. What the hell am I supposed to do? Get a real job and contribute to society? Why can’t I be a socialite/author?” Confident that I had outsmarted them, I was taken aback by their response. “At least we can be proud that your sister is going to do something respectable and fail at it. We won’t continue to support your foray into some ridiculous socialite lifestyle. Even though it’s eerily similar to how you currently live your life, it isn’t a real job,” they replied. So unless I get a job by the age of 30, my sister will now get 75% of my 2nd trust fund since my parents are now certain that I don’t “understand how the world works” because I think being a socialite is a job. UN-believable. I was left with no choice. No, I’m not going to get a “real” job, that’s retarded. I’m just going to become a famous socialite by writing a book and getting my own reality tv series. When my parents realize I’m a famous socialite, as opposed to just a Raleigh socialite, they’ll have to consider me “gainfully employed”. Also, when I’m famous I won’t even have to rely on my 2nd trust fund anyway.
In order to become a famous socialite, I spent all weekend analyzing the current famous socialite market by watching The Hills, TMZ, and reading Perez Hilton while battling a hangover. Through my research I’ve found that there is a huge need for a male socialite who is out of touch with reality. If the sexist liberal media wasn’t so sexist people like me would get a chance to show the world just how arrogant I really am. All we ever hear about is female socialites such as Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan with a nip slip here or trip to rehab there. Hell, if that’s all it takes to become famous I’ll go commando one night at Felson’s while wearing my ridiculously short Patagonia shorts. How bout dem apples? The only real competition I have is from my newfound hero, Spencer Pratt, star of “The Hills” on MTV. It’s like I’ve finally found someone who “gets me”. There’s no reason I can’t be as self absorbed as he is. From the Venn diagram below you can obviously see that we are almost exactly alike (except he doesn’t live ITB).
I’ve got a lot to learn from Spencer. As you can see from the above video, he currently demands a minimum $100,000 appearance fee from the bars or clubs he attends. As terrible as this sounds, I’m actually going to have to spend a few nights at some bars downtown if I want to be noticed as a famous socialite. Unfortunately, after calling a few of the clubs downtown, I’ve found that not only can they not afford to pay me to attend their bar, but they had never even heard of me. I’m assuming that’s only because none of the people who work at the bars downtown can read. I’m sure that once I start bringing in all the paparazzi, they’ll start paying me. I’ll make sure not to speak to any of the other patrons while I’m there. This isn’t because I’m afraid of new places and people who aren’t exactly like me, it’s just that I’ll need to show everyone that I’m a famous socialite by refusing to converse with anyone who doesn’t at least have a reality show on basic cable.
Even though I’ll probably have my own reality series within the next month or so, I need to generate some “buzz” immediately. That’s why I’m hiring Forrest to follow me around Cameron Village and take pictures of me eating at Village Deli or shopping at Harris Teeter. Once other photographers see this, they’ll assume I’m a celebrity and then I’ll have the paparazzi following me around while I do everyday stuff. It’ll be like “Jon and Kate Plus 8″, but without the kids and that hideous Mom that’s always with them. This being famous thing is going to be easier than taking a girl home from the bar after telling her who I am (as if she doesn’t already know).
Don’t worry, ITB Insider will continue to go on as normal. I’m just writing this book so poor people can’t read my life stories and live vicariously through me. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t post anything that is too sacred on this blog. Also, since LC from The Hills has the #1 book on the NY Times best seller list, writing my book will obviously catapult me to at least C-level celebrity status. I’ll go into more detail on the book after I meet with my new agent.
Note: A few people were asking me what “Id” is in the Venn diagram. It basically describes Spencer and I perfectly. “The id is responsible for our basic drives such as food, water, sex, and basic impulses. It is amoral and egocentric, ruled by the pleasure–pain principle; it is without a sense of time, completely illogical, primarily sexual, infantile in its emotional development, and will not take “no” for an answer.”
Earlier this week, I had planned to share the story of how a fucking hipster had the audacity to move in to the house next door and have a hipster cookout on the 4th of July. I also wanted to discuss the blobs found in the sewers of Cameron Village as well as Michael Jackson and the upcoming Who’s Bad? concert that will be held at Felson’s this Saturday. That was until Robin, the poster child for abortion, came on the blog and started making ridiculous comments. I’m sure you all are pretty annoyed with this girl by now. She’s taken the attention away from what I enjoy writing about the most, which is of course, me. I haven’t left a single response to her in the comments section of “Southern Belles” or “Robin Hoodwinked”. This is only the second, and the last, time that I will address Robin and the events of this week.
Robin, you’ve said a lot of things that I could respond to, if I actually gave a shit. My IT guy has been told to continue to let your comments through, so feel free to keep posting. However, this is the last response that I’ll make regarding you or any of your comments.
“At this point, I am honestly tired of playing with someone who has the mentality of a thirteen year old.” – You went on to post 20 more comments after making this statement.
“First of all, I can’t decide if you are a writer or video producer” – I’m not a writer or a producer, I’m a fucking socialite (with a book deal on the way) who gets blackout while doing the same exact thing every weekend.
“But I still say your writing is extremely questionable. I think there are two of you posting here. One of you has the ability to write well and the other one doesn’t. Unless you have two personalities….maybe that is the case here.” – Again, I don’t ever respond to people in the comments section. The people who have been making an ass out of you are loyal readers, not me.
“Isn’t he the one who tracked down my IP address and called my girlfriend’s cable company in his attempt to locate the owner of the IP address?” – No. My IT guy did this to make sure you were from Raleigh (something I’m still unsure about). Also, he didn’t call your girlfriend’s fucking cable company.
“BTW- Stop trying to hack our investment accounts. My girlfriend received a phone call today from her Financial Adviser in Raleigh AND the security department of her financial institution, confirming to her that someone has been attempting to obtain her personal/financial information.” – I can’t tell if you’re just making shit up now. I don’t need to “hack” your “investment accounts”. While my first trust fund is a bit low (due to a few bad investments with a guy named Victor), the second trust fund that kicks in when I turn 30 will more than take care of me (until I blow it all in a span of 2 years).
“I think you have purposefully created a satiric blog to get people’s attention, and you are then going to sell your t-shirts and other paraphernalia. CLEVER!” – I still don’t understand why you think I’m trying to sell fucking t-shirts. It’s hard enough to make sure the few people who purchase them are true ITB residents. Do you think I want the kids in my sweatshop to have to sort through more orders for t-shirts to make sure the buyers are legit residents? Those kids can’t even read, and I sure as hell won’t teach them how to anytime soon. If they can read, they can learn. If they can learn, they’ll realize getting paid $0.38 a day is well below their country’s minimum wage of $2.46/hr. I’m not going to stoop to the level of the Eckerd’s (Rite Aid) at Cameron Village (and Five Points) that, for some unknown reason, sells Broughton apparel to anyone who can afford it. In fact, last week I had to spend $9,372.22 at Eckerd’s buying all the Broughton clothing they had in stock so commoners couldn’t purchase any and pretend they were alumni.
Speaking of Cameron Village, I would much rather be discussing the upcoming Who’s Bad? concert at Felson’s this Saturday. I’m a little emotional about this one. Growing up, I spent two weeks every year at Camp Neverland (after attending Camp Sea Gull) and became pretty close with Michael Jackson. Over the years, it became harder and harder to deal with the allegations of misconduct. I still can’t figure out why it’s so hard for everyone to understand that drinking “sleepy juice” before watching movies in bed then waking up the next afternoon having no recollection of the previous 12 hours was just one of the fun camp activities that Michael had planned for us. Sure, there were times when I’d wake up dressed in a Peter Pan costume in a different room than the one I had fallen asleep in, but Michael said that was just because the “dream fairy” had visited me during the night. What’s wrong with that? Michael was just preparing me for the future, knowing that later in life I would spend each weekend waking up in unfamiliar places without remembering what had happened the night before. He also used to love making us all blow Bubbles. Michael taught us everything we needed to know about financial management and we learned that being famous is the greatest thing that can ever happen to anyone. Sadly, the camp was shut down in 1994, but Michael and I continued to be pen pals, then AIM buddies, then GChat friends up until last year. It’s been tough dealing with his passing, but I guess if you can’t have the real thing, (although it’s debatable on how much of him was real) then you might as well enjoy Who’s Bad?.
As you all know, I don’t enjoy responding to critics. However, a woman named “Robin” recently left some comments that needed to be addressed. If you haven’t read all of her comments, she basically questioned my authenticity, then went on to talk about how ITB she was. She even wasted time trying to figure out who I was on some City Data Forum website. After that, things got sort of confusing and it just seemed like a middle aged ITB woman, who had nothing better to do than argue with people on the internet, had decided to write her life story in the comments on this blog. I figured I’d wait until she got all those wonderful insights out of her system before I responded. It appears that she’s finished commenting as of today, when she wrote, “I will no longer attempt to pierce through your mental obtuseness.” So let me begin with my e-mail to her.
Dear Robin,
Look lady, I haven’t even been paying attention to this comment shit that’s been going on over the last three days. My IT guys have been approving the comments and were nice enough to let you continue to make a fool out of yourself, while I was busy carrying on with my normal life. I checked my blog today and saw what could only be described as your own personal ITB memoir, which was not in the least bit entertaining. However, your “obtuseness” did provide me with literally minutes of enjoyment. The fact that you’ve been arguing with my supporters (thanks guys, jager bombs on me this weekend) for the past two days really says a lot about how significant you are. You’re comments are so long that I’m guessing you’ve been at home wasting your entire day on these novellas. Does your husband know you’ve been doing this all day instead of folding the laundry and Swiffering the house? My IT guys say you live in South Carolina now. Is this true? You obviously love ITB with a passion (can’t blame you there), which makes me wonder why you left. I can only assume your departure was due to some sort of shameful incident that involved the CCC, a waiter, the back of your father’s SUV, and a broken prophylactic. Regardless of where you live, you still are incapable of comprehending the purpose of this blog. I update others, who are worthy, on my opinion of current events or about the partying that I’m sometimes sorry for. I can’t spend all day arguing on the internet, as I’ve got more important things to worry about, such as when I’m going to start pre-gaming for the Who’s Bad? concert on Saturday, or on whether I think Busy Bee is an acceptable place to be seen (I’m still debating this issue, more to come later). Hell, deciding between Village Deli and the Community Grocery for lunch is a more important use of my time than pointing out your inability to understand why I do what I do.
I was going to ignore your first comment, but you wouldn’t stop. You said you contacted your friend from the FBI. The FBI? Really? From your thorough investigation, I take it you’ve been reading too many of your kid’s Encyclopedia Brown books (the answers to the cases are in the back). You even had a friend call up someone with the last name “Finley” to see if I was related to them. I’m pretty sure I’ve been vetted more than Sarah Palin over the last three days. I shouldn’t waste my time, but I’m going to address a few of the many asinine statements you’ve made thus far. Regarding your first question about where I’m from; not only do I live ITB now, but I was born here (at Rex Hospital, obviously) and have lived here my entire life. You wondered why I wasn’t listed in any Wake County databases. If you knew anything about being a socialite, you’d know that all my assets are in multiple irrevocable trusts from my grandparents, (the next one is transferrable to me at age 30) and that I’m not some commoner who lets Wake County list my property value. Do the posts that I write not show how out of touch with reality I really am? I spend thousands of dollars of my parents’ money at overrated bars in Raleigh. Is that not ITB? I’ve spent 75% of my (first) trust fund on a plan to build a wall around the belt line to keep others out. Is that not ITB? My parents had kids in four year intervals to ensure that there would always be one child attending Broughton at all times. Is that not ITB? All these questions are rhetorical because the answer is “Yes, I’m ITB as shit.” However, this question isn’t rhetorical Robin; who the fuck are you?
Sincerely,
WNF IV
The following are my responses to some of her retarded statements. Some of them have been edited because they’re so long (all the spelling errors are hers). To read the full version of Robin’s ITB life story, click here.
You asked Forrest “Do you actually know Earle Finley? He sits on the board of the Finley Foundation….” – Yeah Robin, it’s real difficult to look up a fucking website and pretend you’re friends with these people. Name dropping doesn’t give you any credibility, although, it does let us know that you can read and use Google.
“It may interest you to know one of my dearest friends who was also raised ITB contacted and spoke at length with one of the Finleys …. and interestingly, he didn’t even know who this ITB Insider was. He had to google the website to see what it is!!” – I guess you two middle aged women have nothing better to do than to try to find out if I’m related to the Finley family that you know. If you were really ITB, you would have been spending your husband’s money at Charlotte’s, after attending your PTA meeting at Daniels Middle School, instead of wasting your time stalking me.
“And I say that no respectable or worthy human being would have a desperate need as you obviously do to exploit the ITB area as a marketing tool. Genius marketing idea but not convincing that you are, in fact, a genuine “Inside the beltline” native. My guess is that you are a transplant from up north, capitalizing on Raleigh. You don’t even write correctly.” – You keep referring to this blog as a “marketing tool”. What the hell do you think I’m “marketing”? Sure you can purchase a t-shirt or an ITB sticker (after my IT dept. approves of your zip code), but I don’t even promote that shit. If you’re important enough to wear it, you’ll know where to get it. Also where are all the ads on my blog if this is a “marketing tool”? That’s right, nowhere. I don’t need “ad revenue” or whatever the fuck it’s called.
Someone searched this “City Data Forum” that you posted on, and found that you didn’t live in Raleigh. You quickly responded, “Nice try. I am not the City Data Forum user but I know who exactly who that person is, and the 27615 is a false zip code she used. She and I are close friends. Why would anyone in their right mind use their actual zip code on one of those things?” – Yeah……it’s your “close friend” that posts on that other site, just like the time I had to tell my Mom I was holding that bag of “nose candy” for my “friend” before we went to the “library” to “study” all night. If your friend is so ITB she would have proudly displayed her zip code.
You continued on….
“I get it. I discussed this blog with several people yesterday and recognize that I failed to interpret it’s purpose….In all truthfulness, I like this blog. I think I have already pointed out that I think it is a genius marketing idea; any visionary can grasp that.” – I do consider myself a visionary.
“But what I don’t understand is WHY the person who created this blog (who apparently is talented) would feel the need to rely upon the Finley name to make his point.” - Relying on my parents is what I do best. How else am I supposed to get the things that I want?
“Why not take this to NYC or Greenwich, CT.” – Are you retarded? Do you expect me to move to NYC or Greenwich, CT or to even waste my time trying to find out what the fuck Greenwich, CT is so I can talk shit about it?
“Myers Park has nothing on Raleigh; I know this for certain. I could really get into specifics here, but will respect others privacy on this topic.” - Finally, we agree on something.
“And why would you compare ITB with Cary? You are comparing apples to oranges on that one, especially when elaborating on “status.” I don’t use money as my gauge when placing these areas into a “status” category. In my opinion, Cary is for the nouveau riche, which, essentially, has nothing to do with money. It has more to do with a mindset and the mindset in Cary will NEVER be consistent with ITB… Cary is full of people who want to show off their wealth, whether they obtained it from hitting the lottery or getting lucky by striking a business deal with a former fraternity brother… Money is easy to make these days, and back in the day (in the old south days), status was obtained through values and hard work. Cary is a beautiful place but I can’t recall a time when I have conversed with someone from there who didn’t mention their material objects or their labels. These are clearly people who think money can buy class and that is why the word “status” doesn’t come to mind when I think of a place like Cary.” – See, if you had just talked like this from the beginning we would have gotten along just fine. Except for all the “values and hard work” bullshit, I totally agree with what you said about Cary.
“I have noticed a downgrade in ITB values, mostly because of the trust fund babies associated with Old Raleigh names, practically destroying their own family names. They have failed to honor their family’s reputation ITB by going out in public and acting a certain way. I won’t mention any names here but in the 90s, there was an ITB descendant of a family, who frequented all of the bars and blew his money at certain types of establlishments (I won’t mention the name because I don’t want my phone ringing about this one). He hung out with us and was referred to as “2.8.” Get it? His sister was considered the unlucky one because she had inherited much less money than her brother. For those of you in the old Raleigh scene, you know exactly who I am talking about. Nice guy, but he managed to ruin his family name, unfortunately. People still talk about it today. The sad part is that his family was highly regarded in the community.” – This guy sounds legendary; I can only hope to achieve this status by continuing to live my life exactly as he lived his. I wonder what “2.8” means? Was that how many seconds it took him to take a jager bomb? Maybe it was how many pounds of blow he could do in a month? I’m dying to know more about him.
“ITB family names are precious to me, not only because I grew up ITB, but because I knew many of these people when they were alive, and now know their children and grandchildren. They are actually very good people, despite the “stigma” of ITB.” – I agree wholeheartedly, I just don’t know what the word “stigma” means.
I hope this has cleared up any confusion for Robin. At first, I was appalled that she would question my credibility. Once she continued to comment over and over and over, I realized that we do agree on some issues. Sadly, she already claimed that she would never return, “I am officially bored with you and won’t return to your board.” To all those other commentors who kept talking about “satire” and “critique”, I’m not sure what those words mean, so I can’t tell if you’re insulting me or not. I’ll assume it’s a compliment from a well educated ITB resident, since someone without an education wouldn’t be able to use such sophisticated vocabulary.
My sister, Mary-Ivy-Laura (yeah, it’s a triple name), is obsessed with reality TV shows. One of her new favorites is a show called “Southern Belles of Louisville” which follows the lives of 5 women in Louisville, Kentucky, who have grown up in the lap of luxury. My sister likes it because she relates so well to the challenges that these headstrong women have to overcome, such as finding a date to a charity black tie event, starting their own business using their father’s money, and realizing they are 35 and don’t have a real job. Tragic, I know, but this show provides her with hours of entertainment. I sat down to watch a bit the other night and became fascinated with this girl, Hadley, who stars on the show as the “girl next door” who “has a history of dating the wrong kind of guys and making poor career choices”. Apparently, she’s “mired in a low paying dead end job as a personal assistant” and is trying to “grow up and discover what she wants out of life”.
Oddly enough, some friends and I were going to be in Louisville that weekend for a wedding. I made it my goal to meet this girl and take her away from the squalor that she lived in as a personal assistant/D-list celebrity. Forrest, Tripp, and I arrived in Louisville on Saturday, knowing that if we went to the most popular place in Louisville, we’d probably run into Hadley. After the rehearsal dinner, we got a cab to take us to a place called Fourth Street, a block full of bars which can only be described as an alcoholic’s dream. We had to have our IDs checked just to enter the block, which infuriated me because they should have known who I was.
Ready to get blackout, we decided to enter a random bar, where we had to pay a $5 cover (I felt so common). It was there that we found buckets of some sort of liquor/red bull mix which Tripp purchased immediately. We threw back some shots because we weren’t comfortable being “just drunk” around new people in a new place…..we needed to be blackout. The bartender was a pretty hot blonde from somewhere who was working there for some reason (I wasn’t listening, I was too busy drunkenly staring at her …..eyes). I was confused as to why this bar employed really hot girls as bartenders instead of middle aged men who live by themselves in shitty apartments. I realized we were in a dueling piano bar when I saw the two pianos and the two piano players “dueling” with each other. Sick of the shitty songs that the crowd was requesting, I went up to the piano player, slipped him a $100 and told him to play Hootie and the Blowfish. He immediately agreed, and said something that sounded like, “I’ve never seen a $100 bill before!” under his breath. They say money talks, that night it sang (all the Hootie and the Blowfish songs I wanted to hear). Most of the bar cleared out after they played “Time” for the fourth time in 30 minutes. Seeing the level of talent decrease so rapidly made us think the bar was closing. Realizing there wasn’t any talent left; we turned to the hot bartender and asked what time she got off, because she was clearly going to come home with one of us. She said the bar usually closed at 2:30 but the other places stayed open until 4:00am. This news hit me harder than finding out that Michael Jackson had died. “4:00am?” I asked. “Yeah, 4:00am,” she replied. “But I had planned to be blackout by 2:00am, just like normal. How am I supposed to function for 2 more hours in my current state?” I asked. She must have thought I was kidding about drinking for the sole purpose of blacking out, because she just laughed and poured us another shot on the house. Well, good night and good luck. I wasn’t going to go home at 2:30am just because that’s what I’ve been trained to do 3 nights a week. No, I was going to make this town my bitch and show them that we could handle 4:00am (turns out we couldn’t handle it).
As I stumbled outside, I ran into a familiar face. I knew I’d seen this guy somewhere before. So I just went up to him and managed to say, “I….know…you….” A look of “Oh, I get this a lot” came across his face and he stopped to talk to me as if I were some sort of fan of his. Sensing his ego swelling, I set him straight, “Easy man, I just said you look familiar. Who the fuck are you?” I asked. “My name’s Russ. I’m on that show Southern Belles,” he replied. That was it. “Oh shit!!!!! Yeah man, my sister watches that show all the time! Where you headed to? I’m from ITB and don’t know where to go around here. What’s open until 4:00am?” I said, a bit too excitedly. “Come on, I’m heading to this place next door,” he said, as he led us to a new bar. We got in the bar and he got mobbed by some girls, which made me think he must just be a hair stylist on the side or something. There’s no way these girls were interested in this douchebag.
I assumed he was about to start giving out fashion advice, and not wanting to be douchey by association, we quickly went to the bar to get drinks by ourselves. On our way, we lost Tripp to an empty booth, which was understandable considering he had taken down numerous shots and 4 of the gallon sized liquor buckets at the previous bar. It was getting pretty late, and Forrest and I needed a pick me up. We headed to the bathroom, where the strangest thing happened. There was a guy sitting on a stool handing out paper towels and offering mints, gum, and cologne to each person when they had finished washing their hands. I took the paper towels from him, grabbed some gum, and said no to the shitty cologne before noticing the basket of dollar bills next to the sink. I suddenly realized he was doing this for money. I didn’t have any small bills, as you know all know, to avoid coming into contact with money that a homeless person may have touched, I don’t carry any bills lower than a $20(have you ever seen anyone give a homeless guy a $20? I didn’t think so). I also try not to carry anything less than $100 bill these days to avoid getting swine flu. Not wanting to appear poor, I pulled out my credit card and asked where his credit card machine was. He stared at me like I was retarded. I told him I’d get him a jager bomb later, and Forrest and I exited towards the dance floor. If this place was anything like Felson’s, (it wasn’t) then the dance floor was the place to be.
That’s when I ran into her, yes her. It was dark, but I would recognize her anywhere. Right there in front of me was Hadley, the D-list reality TV star next door. Being a socialite myself, I don’t get nervous in front of famous people. I know just how to handle them. Just like the time I made NFL Hall of Famer Michael Irvin leave Felson’s by repeatedly asking him if he wanted shots, I approached Hadley and began my routine. “Hey, You’re on that show, my sister loves that shit… You wanna take shots? I’m buyin’ shots. You want shots? What kinda shot do you want? I’m buyin’ shots, what do you want?” I said. Startled, she replied, “Ummm.. jager bombs?” What are the odds that this girl would have chosen the exact shot that I had planned on buying her regardless of her answer? It was meant to be. We took a few jager bombs (I thought it was odd that they served them in an actual glass as opposed to an 8 ounce clear plastic cup, but I took them anyway) and really hit it off. I could tell she was into me, obviously. I gave her my business card (which just says my name and “ITB Socialite” as my title) and said, “Come back with me, I can take you away from all of this.” To which she replied, “What are you talking about? What is ITB?” It was 3:45am and I didn’t have time to explain the glorious life she was about to have as my new girlfriend. I quickly changed topics, “Are you on Facebook?” I yelled over the blaring techno music. Before she could answer, douchebag Russ swept in and made her get up on the bar.
Apparently, his role on the show is the “best friend who still wants to bang her but can’t because she’s dating other dudes.” So it was fitting that he would try to sabotage our first night together. I had no help, as Forrest was in his own world on the dance floor and Tripp was sitting in a booth by himself, non-responsive to my demands that he “get the fuck up and come make me look better”. Realizing this conversation was over; I decided to play hard to get with Hadley. By “play hard to get”, I mean I’ll probably Facebook the shit out of her, and then see where things go from there, since she was obviously so into me.
By now the bar was closing and I was too drunk to know what to do with myself. I managed to gather Forrest and Tripp and we got a cab. The next thing I remember, Forrest and I were getting out of our taxi without Tripp. Figuring he was just too drunk to move, I opened his door to drag him out. He was conscious, but claimed that we were at the wrong hotel, a clear sign that he was blackout. I went into the lobby and asked the guy at the front desk, “I’m in Room 227, what’s my name?” Confused, he stared at me (probably because I was wearing shoes that cost more than his car) and responded “Excuse me?” I tried to explain myself, “I’m staying in Room 227, what is my name?!” Finally having figured out what I was asking, he looked in his computer, “Um sir, 227 is occupied by an Anne Hayes, are you with her?” What was he talking about? “Anne Hayes? Who the fuck is that? And why is she in my room?” I asked. I was pretty sure I hadn’t ordered a prostitute (yet), because we normally wait until we’re settled into our room before looking for Craigslist prostitutes on our iPhones (they have an app for that). He asked to see my hotel key, and sure enough, we were at the wrong hotel. Apparently, there is a Hyatt Place East and Hyatt Place West, and we weren’t at the right one. We went back out to the cab where Tripp was still in the backseat mumbling that he told us he, “knew what he was fucking talking about”. We yelled at the foreign cab driver for not being able to understand what we had drunkenly told him when we first got in his cab half an hour earlier. After a long argument, where we threatened to have him deported, he finally took us to our hotel, a mere 15 miles away. We got back to our rooms, passed out, and woke up just in time to be late to the wedding luncheon at 12:00pm. I apologized to the groom for partyin’ and told him that there was a good reason we were out until 4:45 am. Overall, we had an incredible weekend and I’m one step closer to bringing Hadley back to a world where she won’t have to have a job and won’t be forced to go to places like Fourth Street ever again.
Note: I sent Hadley a link to this post, so she’ll probably call me (sue me) in the next few days. I can’t wait to hear from her.
