A top secret contact of mine was fortunate enough to attend Doug Steiner's birthday bash in the Brooklyn Navy Yard recently. Since we're all curious as to what it's like behind those gates, he offered to share his experience (under the pseydonym "Bill Bennet"): Thank you Lesterhead! I'm feeling super to be here!
Well readers, let me tell you a juicy story about last Friday night! Your faithful reporter, by the skin of his charm and suavity, got invited to a glittering party at the Steiner Studios in the ghetto-swank Brooklyn Navy Yard. The stars were out on November 30th both in the frozen night sky and on the red carpet!
Inside the scene was "thumpin', yo!" Our host for the evening and the birthday boy for whom the birthday bash was bumpin', the amazing Doug Steiner, had turned the ginormous main studio space -- twenty-seven thousand square feet of floor space with fifty foot ceilings! -- into a full-on dance club. The bar(s --three giant open bars!) were swarmed like a fat American tourist in the Congo, and rasperry vodka flowed like semen and ink at a writers' retreat. Beautiful go-go dancers shook their booties on raised platforms placed randomly throughout the space -- and when I say beautiful, I mean Booo-ti-foooollll!!! For the men, a hot blonde, a hot Latina, a hot African-American, and one dancer I couldn't quite place (Samoan islander mixed with Scottish highlander?) were bursting out of skimpy outfits, boobs and butts glistening with sweat! For the ladies guys in Greco-Roman wrestling gear pumped you up! as their rock hard muscles undulated like the enraged seas!
I was on pins and needles when my contact for the evening was approached by the birthday boy himself. I sharpened my conversation skills with a pocket pencil sharpener, grabbed an extra cocktail, and headed over to the pair.
"Doug, this is my friend Bill Bennet. Bill this is Doug Steiner."
Reader, I almost fainted on the spot.
Doug Steiner (who was being shadowed by his personal photographer) is a commanding five foot, six inches tall. Penetrating eyes peer out from strong brows situated just beneath his balding head.
"Hi," he said, and offered me a hand soft from lack of manual labor, but hard from giving "no"s to so many aspiring filmmakers. I gushed at how wonderful it was to meet him, and he, like Andy Warhol, acted dazed and indifferent, all the while projecting an inner confidence and intelligence that can only be described as "ineffable."
Naturally Mr. Steiner had too many guests to stop and chat with your humble reporter, and so he moved on through the crowd, shaking hands while the constant lightning from the flash of his personal photographer blinded the guests -- almost as much as the birthday boy's brilliance.
I made my way back to the bar to get my signature club soda and lime when a little man, who had obviously slipped past the velvet rope, had the nerve to ask if I was the designated driver. In the first place, I thought, I don't drive. I am DRIVEN. So I turned to him and said, "No. I'm in recovery." I thought it might give me a little Amy Winehouse chic. :)
Sadly my attempts to nose my way into the VIP rooms met with repeated rebuffs (and how buff! Mr. Steiner really knows how to pick a bouncer! ). So there's not much more to say. The plebes who milled around the dance floor mostly seemed to be indie movie company interns -- skinny, nervous young men with beards and sallow complexions -- or obese women in their 40s looking to pick up one of these trembling wall flowers in flannel. Occasionally a middle-aged entertainment lawyer would provide a spectacle, knocking back vodka tonics and leering at the go-go dancers. The high point of the remainder of the evening was watching one of the old, fat ladies groping a male go-go dancer's juicy package while her equally rotund friend took pictures on her mini digital camera.
Around 11 the gliterati started to fliterati into the night. I took my cue, downed the rest of my soda and lime and flew into the night to adventure and fun!!!
No word on whether or not the party moved to the Navy Yard Lounge.