This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.


For reasons that are still not entirely clear to us (although the idea of free booze probably figures prominently), we decided to take a friend up on their offer to assist us in "getting on the list" for last night's Sony PSP party (which we described yesterday as "Sony's Secret C-List Show," a tidbit that would become painfully ironic). The short version: Only bad things happen when Defamer tries to leave the house. The slightly longer version follows, presented in this special photo essay in three acts...

Act One: We're On The List [see above pic]
After a short, unproductive conversation with a bleach-blonde PR boy working the media entrance (paraphrased snippet: "I love your site, but you're not on the list. Soooorreeee!" translation: "Fuck off and die, and when they invent a letter of the alphabet that describes the list that a blogger might be on, still think twice about calling, mmmkay? Did I mention you should fuck off and die? I did? Well, do both of those, OK? Great!"], we waited on line (pictured) to find out to that we weren't on the "regular" list, either. Like so many things you have to do in Hollywood, this hurt less the second time. Marvel at our cameraphone's seemingly supernatural ability to capture the visual metaphor of the blinding light representing the goal we would never achieve. It's like we've got a hacky little director living inside our phone!
Insult to injury bonus: David Spade rolls in unmolested as we chat with Blondie.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.


Act Two: Brush With Fame
 The two highlights of the evening: The Valet of Shame was free (even if you're a rejected douchebag who wasn't on either flavor of list, just like us!), and while we were waiting for them to bring around the car, we snapped Say Anything's Ione Skye, blurrily pictured here as she chats on a cellphone.

This image was lost some time after publication, but you can still view it here.


Act The Third: Lashing Out
 We deal with our impotent rage the only way we know how—by trying to relate our piddling ordeal (we did drive all the way to Hollywood—can't you hear God laughing?) to a hot-button issue ripped from the headlines. Sadly, there will be no loss of life or rioting when word of our desecration of the free promotional magazine we received between rejections hits the internets.

The hard-learned moral: We are never leaving the apartment again. Not even for David Spade.