Photo by Jessica CalkinsI'm concerned about the fates of the folks at Fox. Judging by their lavish premiere party, they either all need to check into a haven for hedonistic Hollywood heathens, or they're terrified that The O.C. is really going to fucking blow.

A few weeks ago, we scored an invitation to the party for The O.C., Fox's latest attempt at reliving their 90210 heyday.

"But look!" I exclaimed, perusing the invitation. "They're holding the party at some hotel in Santa Monica! Ew!"

It was a slap from Hollywood in the faces of potential Orange County O.C. viewers. Ouch.

"But look!" countered our photo editor, pointing to a website with pictures of impeccably decorated $300-per-night hotel rooms. "They're holding the party at the Viceroy Hotel! Ooh!"

Pleased to meet you, Hollywood. Mind if I turn the other cheek?

And so last Tuesday, an intern, her barfly boss and a photographer arrived at the Viceroy, overdressed and very early. Evidently the 6 p.m. "press" check-in was for paparazzi. We made a bee line for the hotel bar.

Two hours later, we stumbled out to the party on the pool deck, where I promptly snagged something that looked like a melted grape snow cone in a martini glass.

While Jessica, the photographer, snapped photos of the oranges floating in the pool—as well as those stuffed into vases and also the ones hanging from palm trees—Leslie, the intern, gasped at the smokin' waiters passing around trays of pu-pus.

"What's this?" she asked, with a wink, reaching for a fried ball of brown.

"Artichoke balls, ma'am," the waiter politely replied.

"He means Orange County chicken balls," a fiftysomething man standing nearby joked, with a wink, reaching to shake her hand.

"Ooh! Lookie! Is that Peter Gallagherstanding next to the open bar?!" I shouted, simultaneously downing my snow cone, grabbing Leslie's arm and preventing an intern scandal.

Quickly relocating to a poolside cabana, we were soon joined by a small group of terrifically hip-looking kids.

"Hey, I'm Jacques," said the shaggy-haired one with geek glasses, shaking my hand. "My band wrote the theme song for the show."

Well, hello, Jacques from Phantom Planet! "I write for OC Weekly!"

"Oh? You guys totally trashed us a few years ago," said Sam, their adorable bassist.

Making a mental note to hunt down the Planet-basher the next day, I apologized and excused myself to go powder my nose.

After trying my damnedest not to fall in the pool as I walked to the ladies' room, I opened the door to the loo and…Hello, Paris Hilton! Quite the multitasker, she was washing her hands and talking on her cell phone. Glancing over at me—presumably to see if I was Mark McGrath stumbling in for a quickie—she smiled and whispered, "I love your dress!"

I swear this really happened.

Slightly taken aback but determined to keep my cool, I graciously replied, "Thanks! I got it at Loehmann's!"

I did!

"Oh," she said with a laugh. "That's okay!"

I swear!

Now, if you want to hear about the rest of my fabulous night spent on Fox's bill, you can buy me a two-buck pint at Rock Bottom Brewery at the Spectrum on Thursday, when Hot Topic sponsors Rock n' Fashion night.

Or maybe on Friday we'll meet up at Club Bravo in Anaheim for Metropolis. As we dance on their two separate dance floors to rock en espaol, I'll share stories of my orange-juggling antics that attracted the attention of more than one O.C. star.

Although I might be too busy watching a taped copy of The O.C. to go out on Saturday, you should still catch Verbal Threat and the Speaker Junkies live at the Anaheim House of Blues for Ya Baby!, a night of hip-hop and laser visuals.

On Sunday, unless the Phantom Planet boys call me to hang out, you can join me at Club Strychnine at Que Sera and thrash together to garage and protopunk music, and if any of you boys out there have ever wondered how short The O.C. star Tate Donovan is—that dude from that one Sandra Bullock movie you never saw—I'll tell you at Ripples on Monday night as we enjoy their Martini Madness drink specials.

By Tuesday night I'll be out of stories, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't head out to Momo's in Huntington Beach and partake of their pepper-eating contest while DJ Mitsuo provides a hip-hop soundtrack.

Lastly, on Wednesday, after traveling with me to the Viceroy for a walking tour of my night of premiere-party euphoria, come back to Long Beach and check out the Soul Titanium Collective, a not-for-profit night of newbie DJs and anything-goes setlists. If you're lucky, maybe I'll call Paris.


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