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You should probably be grateful that this picture didn't come out too well. No one should have to see this sort of thing.
 For whatever reason, I was allowed inside the 2005 Inner Circle, an event in which City Hall reporters willingly don costumes and perform a two-act musical lampoon of the mayor. Take the world's worst high school musical experience, subtract 50% of its quality, and cast the production with City Hall reporters, and you have both visual and auditory hell. Add Mayor Bloomberg, Senator Schumer, and free alcohol, and you've got a special-ed version of the Gridiron Gala.

Within 10 minutes of my arrival at the midtown Hilton, I know I am out of my element. Not only am I the youngest person there (save for a few poor children, unwittingly clad in tuxedos and dragged to the event by their evil, media whore parents), but I am one of the few attendees not visibly addicted to hairspray. Always planning ahead, my companions and I order several bottles of wine and champagne for our table before hitting the bar. Things are looking grim, and we're going to need reinforcements.

After a short time, the cocktail hour is chugging along towards intolerably boring levels. I smile and nod a lot at people who identify me as "the internet girl." Suddenly a gentleman is engaging me in conversation, extolling the virtues of nude sunbathing on St. Bart s. I m mildly disturbed, but then he insists that I should be more disturbed by New York mag's blondest slave, who also enjoys tanning topless on the island - despite the presence of her father. Thanks, didn t need to know that.

Word is spreading that Mayor Bloomberg will not be performing his traditional musical rebuttal at the end of the evening out of respect for the Pope. I space out and ponder this admirable sacrifice for the Staten Island vote - until I realize Hizzoner is standing right next to me. While I know the short jokes have become clich d, I have to comment: With my heels on, I was looking down on his bald spot. Diana Taylor is also there, looking remarkably attractive for an older mistress. Secretly, I want her to be the Julie Andrews to my Anne Hathaway.

I try to talk to Bloomberg ( Why, sir, wherever did you get that tan?! ), but he s being shuffled away. Defeated, I turn to the silent auction table and notice that no one has bid on any of the smaller items. This doesn t seem right; I take a pen and, on behalf of Mayor Bloomberg, bid $400,275 for a 5x7 sketch of Jean-Claude and Christo. When I check back to see if anyone has noticed, several gray-haired ladies are pointing at the ghastly prank with visible horror. I feel fuzzy.

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Let's hope Mayor B ponied up after making such a hefty bid.

Eventually, we re herded into the Hilton s ballroom (NB to Paris and Nicky: Time for some renovations!) for the show. Senator Chuck Schumer and his wife, Dept. of Transportation fairy Iris Weinshall, are sitting at my table. I feel both blessed and cursed, but watch them the entire show. (Schumer laughs at everything, says, "They're making fun of YOU!" to his wife when appropriate. She is not as amused.) Over a plate of cold meat, I watch the horror that is journalists in song. Everyone is wearing an obscene amount of blush. Strawberry Fields becomes Virginia Fields. A toga costume leads to a reporter nip-slip. By the time two journos dressed as Pale Male and Lola sing their duet, I realize that I probably shouldn t have given up my LCD Soundsystem ticket. I remind myself that this is for charity. I will go to heaven. Yes, yes I will.

But wait: there s a second act. I start pounding wine. During the intermission, Ed Koch totters by and says hello. City Council Speaker Gifford Miller, making the rounds, points at me and says, "Good to meet ya!" We have never met, but he has two bodyguards, so I smile and wave.

At the end of the show, Bloomberg comes out and gives a nice little speech about the Pope, who showed us all how to die. (Um, with a 24/7 play-by-play on CNN?) As we begin to leave, I ask Commissioner Weinshall what she plans to do about the F train. She gives me a blank stare, smiles strangely, and asks what I mean. It s overrun with hipsters! I exclaim. I don t know anything about hipsters, she responds, looking at me as if I were clad in tin-foil and scotch tape. Well, it s a huge problem, I insist. Look into it.

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Hoagies and grinders, hoagies and grinders...Navy bean, navy bean, meatball sandwich...

The crowd, now considerably drunk, shuffles upstairs to the after-party, which is a penthouse suite featuring a long-ass hoagie. Yeah! It's like the game is on in ten minutes! I do my best to rally, but my body is shutting down and my heels have given me remarkable blisters; my time here is done.