• by Kelly Samardak , June 3, 2008

House of Campari presents "Defining a Moment: 25 New York Artists
June 2, 2008

I've never had Campari. I've heard of it, don't get me wrong, but I've never had a reason to say "I'd like a Campari and ..." when it's a lot easier to say "shot of tequila" or "Bud Light" (mmm, wings and beer...). I've also never read RADAR or RADARonline, but hey, what better time to give 'er a whirl than at a party thrown by RADAR magazine and Campari, celebrating 25 emerging New York artists? And by "What better time" I mean "please don't ever make me drink this stuff again and where is the magazine collateral?"

An extremely tall woman (I'm 4'11," so anyone over 5'2" is extremely tall to me) greeted us upon entry to House of Campari. I hate lines, so getting there at granny time means no waiting. However, arriving early to this party just meant I got hot first (I'm talking stifling, I'm-going-to-pass-out-in-a-pool-of-sweat HEAT) and I was one of the first to realize there were no munchies. I would have welcomed a cracker and a laxative. Nothing.

Maybe they wanted us to feel the whole "starving artist" lifestyle -- you know, like a theme party. Not yet "angry hungry" (a very scary sight, I do believe my eyes actually glow red) I headed for the second floor bar, passing a saucy red-candled bathroom, and an elevated chaise lounge that I assume was for people to rest on after they pass out from hunger, to lose my Campari virginity.

My eyes were drawn to a blood-red concoction in chubby little shorty martini glasses like a new york nomad drawn to discarded fries. A lime circle floated gently atop the maroon froth. This was my drink. I picked it up, took a sip, and wondered if it would be gauche to spit it back in the cup, toss it in the bartender's face, slap him with satin gloves and gasp "how dare you!" Because how dare he try to kill me in front of all these people.

I would rather have a hamster throw up in my mouth, followed by a bucket of stagnant hot summer water pooled in the cigarette-laden streets of Chinatown after the seafood (dehydrated and moist) dealers have hosed down their bins, than ever put a Campari-mixed drink down my esophagus again. Each drink was worse than the one before. Rose and tequila? It smelled like my grandma's wig and tasted like it too. Seriously, the drinks were so horrible I had forgotten why I was there. We had no other choices. Nope, we were being held hostage by a Campari, and Campari only, bar. I mentioned there was nary a celery stick to be seen, right? OK, just checking.

I did not stick around for Burlesque. That's right, the draw of women in various stages of teasing undress could not stop these feet from clomping down the stairs to the nearest exit in hot pursuit of sustenance and a palate cleanser to remove the black licorice honk-shadow nestling in my cheeks.

Cliff's Notes version? Art good, Campari bad, RADAR, no idea. Oh -- and I saw Kelly Ripa on the way to the party and said hey. She's little!

Want to try to successfully poison Kelly and have her cover it in Just An Online Minute? Send invitations to kelly@mediapost.com

Check out the artsy fartsy photos on Flickr !