Diary of a DNC Party Crasher: Nelly, at Mile High Station

Categories: Last Night

I didn't Google-map the location of the MySpace-sponsored Nelly show on Monday night. I had a general idea of where I was going, but no actual concrete directions, which made it difficult, since finding this venue -- the sprawling Mile High Station -- is pretty much impossible. I drove around for about 20 minutes, snaking below the Colfax viaduct, and finally arrived the somehow classy/sketchy club. Once I arrived, there was a line out the door and through the parking lot. But there was something different about this crowd, something that wreaked of old money. Or was it old fashion?

"This one is going to be too hard," I thought. "That front door is crawling with police, you don't have on nice enough clothes." This went on for a good five minutes in my internal workings. I was scaring myself into an arrested retreat.

Eventually my inner voice spoke to me on a level that only I would truly understand. I heard the great majestic voice of Rob Schneider say to me; "You can do it!" Yeah I can do it I thought, fuck yeah I can do it. And I will. Just then a group of black women approached my car. I later found out they were all three sisters. They asked me if I knew how to get to the Pepsi center from where we were. I did but not well enough to give them any sort of great directions, other than just keep going that way. So I offered them a ride; I needed a little more time to think over my plan.

Once I dropped them off, I headed back to the parking lot of the Mile High Station. I calmly gathered my camera, my bag, and my balls. The line was now longer, and I knew there was no hope through the front. I dialed up my girlfriend on my phone and began to walk towards the back of the building, which was semi-blocked off by a gate. There were two security people once I got close to the building.

I had told my girlfriend that I would be saying some stupid shit to her on the phone, but to just play along. It's always good to act like you are to busy to be bothered with pervasive questions like, "Do you have a pass" or "Are you in the right place." The less attention you pay to the actual security people and focus on your faux conversation, the less inclined that under paid security guy/gal is going to pay to you. I was armed with a small man bag and a camera, so I looked pretty official, and paraded around the back door with a cigarette in my mouth talking about flights with my girl. I never once looked at the rent-a-cops, and I finished my smoke before walking straight through the kitchen. Once I was in, the only people that stood in my way were hired help, servers and bread basket jockies, cooks -- you get it. I was in the clear.

Once inside, I beelined it to the bar, where I ordered a bottle of water and a coke. The room was filling up nicely, and they went all out for this party; there were tables with glow sticks on them and pamphlets; there were beautiful women everywhere, and they seemed to out number the men that were standing around. I looked cautiously for credentials, just to make sure that I didn't need some fucked up wrist band or choke chain to identify that I was a paying patron or invited guest.

I tried to pay for my drinks, but as the bar keep walked away from me, I realized something that would make any alcoholic praise god: OPEN FUCKING BAR!!! Dyno-mite I'm going to get wasted! Sadly -- happily, whatever -- I resigned myself from drinking about three years ago this week in fact. But I felt vicariously overjoyed for the drunks in the room.

The party like I mentioned was well put together, free food, free booze, great interpretive dance by some people that were all painted up with glow in the dark paint. I felt like I was watching a Duran Duran video. I couldn't help but laugh the entire time. I ate some sliders, some quesadillas, had some cheese wrap thing, most of of this shit I'm just guessing on, because it was so fucking dark that I couldn't even see the food. Which I thought was smart.

So midnight finally rolled around, and after talking to some freelance Brit photog for nearly an hour, I was ready for some Nelly -- or as ready as I was ever going to be. I stood at the front of the stage, waiting for this no talent hack to entertain us. I managed to stand along side the wildest group of women in the building; they were shaking it and rolling it and smacking it on the ground. I was impressed. I had never seen old ass women behave like they were on dance party USA. We waited until about 12:45 before Nelly finally came on stage, but while we were waiting the guitar player, made up his own rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner," which, by the way, made me feel so patriotic, I almost shed a solitary tear. It was beautiful. It really did give me feeling of pride to be an American, overweight and enjoying the spoils of the wealthy.

AHHH if only every day could be like this. If only I could wake up with booty shaking grandmas and star spangled banners, God Bless us all and to all a good night.

By the way I take back that no talent hack comment, Nelly has some appeal, but I guess you don't need me to tell you that. The millions of records sold each year speak loud and clear. -- Josh Macurdy

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