In a recent interview, Late Night host Conan O’Brien made what I found to be some interesting comments regarding the fine line between pleasing yourself and pleasing the audience: “On the show, there’s this really delicate balance between pleasing ourselves, just making ourselves happy, and making the audience happy. And I think for a good show, you have to hit this balance, because you can’t just completely appeal to the audience.” But as Conan acknowledges, the self-satisfaction can only go so far. Inevitably, there are going to be some jokes which the audience will not get... primarily because there’s “nothing to get.”

This is a problem that we at the eXile have always done our best to ignore. Oh sure, every so often one of us will question whether this or that gag doesn’t perhaps go too far into the realm of audience disdain. But the standard response to such temerity is contemptuous stares from the other members of the editorial staff, followed by a prolonged period of uncomfortable silence. A few moments later, the timid questioner will nervously light a cigarette, as the low hum of computer fans, the syncopated tapping of keyboards, and the occasional grinding of teeth retake their rightful audible place just above the office’s atmosphere of grim quiet. All is once again right with the world, and we can go back to doing our jobs in a more or less efficient fashion. That is, until the occurrence of a jarring event such as last weekend’s Sure Shot Party at Zapasnik/Art Garbage.

We’ve found ourselves face-to-face with our audience on many previous occasions, of course, but never without the benefit of chemical intermediaries of one form or another. This time, however, we were on our own... in more way than one, as it turned out. You see, it was Ames who originally set the wheels for this particular party in motion. “It’s about time for us to have another party,” he said. “The weather will be nice by then... it will be fun.” He was just about to leave for America at that point, but he assured us that he would be returning in time for the party in order to pick up some more of his personal belongings. Sure enough, about a week before the party, came the curiously terse email from some unknown location between New York and Honolulu: “Won’t be coming back for the party. Decided it’s not really worth the effort and expense.”

So there we were, Taibbi and I, our systems horrifically pure and clean, sitting at an uncomfortable table in the back of Zapasnik bolting Irish coffees in a futile attempt to conjure up some kind of mojo. The weather was unseasonably chilly and the skies threatening a downpour, essentially rendering the outdoor patio area useless. It was already after 10 p.m., and the case upon case of booze promised by the sponsors was mysteriously missing in transit. But the truly terrifying part was realizing that you people were on your way.

The sponsor booze did eventually arrive, after which we were able to spend some time back in the VIP room tying on a minor-league buzz and giving some vague instructions to the troupe of gay dancers assembled for the debut of Lyudi iz derevnya’s “K.P.R.F.” But this was nothing more than a temporary reprieve, and we knew it. Eventually, we would have to go out there and—at least on some superficial level—interface with our audience.

So out we went. We expected some serious unpleasantness and were not disappointed. The total sum of your presence (which we had apparently, and for some unfathomable reason, knowingly invited) laughed at our pathetic little states of semi-intoxication much as a hardcore gunshot would mock the analgesic effects of over-the-counter ibuprofen.

It wasn’t so much the way you rambled on incomprehensibly about we’re-not-sure-what or the fact that your facial features would appear to indicate that you all grew up in the vicinity of the very same nuclear testing site. It wasn’t even the fact that almost every one of you thought that I was kidding when I said that I had essentially been trapped in my apartment for three weeks with unwieldy casts attached to the ends of both legs. No, the truly disturbing thing was simply that you were there at all. We were there because we had to be. What was your excuse?

If your looks of patient expectation as you stood in the over-lit room waiting for things to get under way were merely bewildering, then the warm glow of apparent satisfaction many of you exuded by the time Detsky Panadoll took the stage (and the lights were finally, mercifully dimmed) was too much to bear. By that point, I could do nothing more than lurk semi-invisibly toward the rear of the upper deck area, occasionally sticking out one of my crutches in a pathetic attempt to trip those of you who appeared to be particularly well-adjusted. And you responded in kind by accidentally walking on my still-sore right foot which, until quite recently, had been wrapped in a protective layer of fiberglass. It goes without saying that the sponsor-provided booze back in the VIP room was now long gone. The bandana-wearing kids from Jack Daniels offered me a T-shirt instead, as if that was any consolation.

Meanwhile, in the other room, that long-haired Grolsch guy was holding court up on stage, leading those of you who had still not had enough in the same inane contests he always does at these parties. I did my best to ignore the spectacle, but nevertheless caught him directing a maddening “... and congratulations to you, Mr. Taibbi” exclamation at Matt as we were hightailing it out of there with my wheelchair, crutches, and tape deck.

We were free, yes, but there was no ignoring the evening’s true legacy: once again we had thrown a party, and once again you had not only come but, more importantly, shown no sign of having the soul-suckingly awful time that we did. Which means that some day soon one of us will convince the others that it is time once again to have another eXile party. And it will be as much your fault as it is yours.