SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

Previous Post: Punta Day 1

Remember in childhood P.E. classes the dreaded running game known as a “relay race?” You’d pass off a baton, ball, stick, or rock (pending on the funding of your elementary school’s P.E. program) panting like a maniac trying to beat the opposing team.

The process described above is similar to how we attended La Huella’s Lacoste party.

First, a little background: Punta parties operate on a bracelet system. No bracelet equals no entry. Some bracelets are mailed out months beforehand with invitations. Some are acquired three or four days before the party, usually by visiting the ranch, mansion or estate where the house party is being held and checking in with a secretary in the foyer to see if you’re

a) On the list and
b) Eligible for a bracelet

Note: While this system is helpful in that it forces you to do a daytime drive to the party location so you’re less likely to get lost the night of, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. If there’s already a list, why not use it at the door on the night of the party? Instead, Punta people like to make you drive out into the wilderness where the party is held to be checked out in person, make sure you’re on the list, and then fork over a bracelet i.e. entry key to the best open bar of your life. Show up with a lot of hot girls, and for one name on the list you might acquire several bracelets.

This is a system we eventually mastered – wait till you here the four-security-checkpoint- Arab-Prince’s-party entry story on Day 9. On Day 2 however, and since the Lacoste party is notoriously difficult since they utilize a bracelet AND list system at the door (unheard of), we had to revert to elementary school P.E. strategies.

The following parallels the riddle where you have farm animals that eat each other, which you must transport across a river in one boat:

Our party of five friends had one name on the list (with no bracelet), one used bracelet (with no name on the list) and three people with nothing but their good looks and charm, which weren’t going to go very far since Ralph Lauren Polo and Lacoste models were in attendance by the dozen. We were also already in trouble with the doorman since our friend whose name was on the list asked if we could come in with her. This angered the doorman so much that he practically spit into his electronic headset and didn’t even her in.

The entrance looked something like this, with tons of camera crews and paparazzi interviewing the Brazilian and Argentine starlets, and me snapping photos of the paparazzi just to shake up the world order and piss people off.

I saw Giuseppe Cipriani, already inside, at the door. I thought about soliciting his help, then realized that even though he’s slept with three of my best friends, he probably has absolutely no idea who I am. Even one of Giuseppe’s trusty sidekicks who’s my Tribeca neighbor told me that tonight was, “really tight.” They couldn’t do anything.

Cavalli, being sly, cunning, and quick, utilized our used-bracelet to get past security check point number 1 and using the jumbled crowd as a diversion, snuck past security check point number 2 where they were checking names off a list.

So we had one person in out of five.

Then good fortune struck.

In the parking lot, I complimented a stunning 40-year-old woman in a flowing Versace gown on her beautiful dress. She happened to be Italian. So we chit chatted away as her lover/boyfriend/husband revved their convertible Mercedes and checked himself out in the rearview mirror. I casually filled her in on our situation (that we were trying to get our entire friends group of five inside) and she ecstatically offered:

“Here! Take my bracelet. Beautiful! You should be inside having a good time.”

In what looked like an extremely painful process, she somehow pulled the very tight, seemingly child size, bracelet off her wrist and over her hand (note: a broken bracelet has no value). She then slid into her convertible with a smile. She and her Romeo sped off with a wave.

The pain we endure: Next, my two friends had to slide this teeny, anorexic wrist size bracelet over my significantly larger hand. It took five minutes and some Chap Stick lubricant, but we did it. And I strutted through the bracelet VIP entrance and the list entrance, never stopping, never looking back. And our girlfriend who was on the list and previously rejected pointed out me walking through to bouncer, who realized we might be legit, and let her in as well.

Now we were three in out five.

Sadly, the moment I regained feeling in my hand and was about to enjoy a Mojito, Cavalli snatched my drink away and we had to work on pulling the bracelet off my wrist so he could relay it to our other girlfriend outside. She snuck past the list entry (it was still extremely crowded) and we had 4 out of 5. Then I put the Italian woman’s bracelet back on and relayed Cavalli’s used bracelet to our last male friend in the parking lot, stuffing the bracelet into his pants pocket as I pretended to chat with him over the gate. Unfortunately, by this time the crowd at the list table had thinned, and when I reentered they tried to stop me.

Years of going out in New York without a legit ID taught me a very important lesson: Never stop walking. Play deaf, play ‘the bulldozer,’ play mute, because if you stop walking, and turn, and talk, and engage authority figures at the door in any kind conversation you’re fucked. You just have to plow through, and come to find out – they’re very rarely going to physically stop you. So when the now-bored list-girl started calling out to me in Spanish:

“Stop! You have to have your name checked off the list. Stop!” I just kept walking, held up my bracelet-ed wrist and said in Italian “I was already inside.” She touched my arm and I kept walking, never turning my head and repeated, “I was already inside.”

And I was through. End of story. I relocated another drink and focused on enjoying what was the most elaborate party I’d ever been to.

Open bars and bonfire grills were spread across the beach. Like an additional beat of the music, you could hear the crashing waves. Amazingly glazed shrimp skewers, gourmet mini pizzas with corn, sushi, sausages, baby lamb imported from Patagonia, and stuffed tomatoes and vegetables roasted to perfection were circulated around by waiters in a never-ending supply. In addition to utilizing La Huella’s restaurant and deck space, they’d erected a huge tent with additional chef stations and a dance floor on the beach. All the areas were interconnected with boardwalks, which ruined the stiletto heels I’d worn that night. Basically, it was like the most extravagant wedding on the plane
t without the wedding part. One of my girlfriends loved the food so much that she got Head Chef’s contact info for when she eventually ties the knot.

And it didn’t stop there. For dessert, chocolate soufflés were floating around. There were also several ice cream stands and of course, Lacoste shaped cookies.

The two highlights of the evening were as follows:

1. When drunk, I started rudely laughing at one of the Uruguayan ambassadors relatives who claimed that Shakira had “ruined” his Jose Ignacio neighborhood by importing paparazzi and police. I think I uttered something classy like, “You’re ridiculously obnoxious, man,” and then spit up champagne through my nose.

2. When we were treated to an impromptu fireworks show on the beach. Here’s what I managed to capture of it. Enjoy!

Continue to Punta Day 3