• by Kelly Samardak , June 30, 2008

When I first moved to Manhattan I lived with this dude (not like that) on the Upper East Side. It was a great apartment with a huge common area and a separate kitchen with full-size appliances (isn't it sad that calling out "full-size appliances" is actually special?). The only drawback was that my roommate worked in a small investment banking firm, said "bra" (the fratty version of "bro") a lot, and wasn't familiar with the moldy shower curtain threat as well as the "dishes in the sink covered in chicken parm for a week will draw flies and roaches the size of Airstream trailers" situation. Obviously, the invitation to watch "Wall Street boxing" was a stereotypical finance-guy-hater's wet dream. Note: I said stereotypical.

Before heading out to B.B. King's I did a little research and what I found was a frightening video over at Trader Monthly of a sea of khakis, blue button-downs, and Heinekens sloshing riotously while red and blue satin shorts flicked in a regulation size ring. Curiosity and flashbacks gripped me simultaneously. Not only was my previous roomie a mirror image of the crowd, but he also had a propensity to wear the same shiny blue shorts on a daily basis. And they looked very... stifling... in the summer months. Across the street from B.B. King's I could see the line forming. Because it was a shuffling line of directly-from-work loosened ties and glammed-up "I thought I was coming to see Mayweather" gowns, I couldn't predict the behavior of the crowd just yet.

It felt like there were 80 levels of VIP-ness, each giving you different open bar accesses including or not including food. This was not necessarily a chewing crowd, but one thing was for certain, I was going to get me some food even if I had to get in the ring for it. There was a minor bit of confusion when I tried to do the press check-in. I was bounced in between three different tables and finally dumped off on the pixie-like Adrienne Waldo - a petite, put together secret machine sort of gal balancing a number of different roles with grace due to some minor shakeups in the company.

There we stood backstage, basking in the bitter smell of sweaty dudes in various stages of boxing prep. "Alright, everbody put on your cups!" was the gravelly phrase that told me it was time to get the heehaw out of there - but not quick enough, as a pair of drawers dropped directly in front of me, revealing grey cotton man undies. Score!

The cocktail reception was out of my childhood fairytales (oh yes, as a child I dreamed of bitesize food, flirty midlife Wallstreeters, and buckets of ice cold beer). Meat meat everywhere, carved in front of us, slapped between what I think were potato rolls, and served on the bone with mint jelly (that had to be lamb). I don't think I saw a tray of veggies, how manly. While gnawing on a nice pink-in-the-middle meat handful I met Rob Filonuk, brand new employee of Frankel & Co, and his date (well, he was the +1), who dressed the ring girls.

I also had the pleasure of trading quips with the very lovely Lizzie Storer, who opened the night of gratuitous violence with the national anthem, her father Edward Padin, GM, Doubledown Media, LLC, sporting the cutest bowtie ever (men should wear more bowties!), and Richard Skeen, president, sales and marketing, Doubledown Media, LCC, who eagerly revealed his fanboy status with MediaPost and threw a long distance "what's up" to the big boss over here (hi, Ken!).

Those three gave me a hint of the energy level I was about to be exposed to right outside the ring. My partner in crime and I stood next to two guys who I can only describe as "grandpa's basement whiskey drunk." They growled, hollered, and crashed their pints into the soundboard area with their pink-polo-covered beer bellies. I heard that Bud Light and electrical equipment is a recommended pairing.

I have grandiose and not-ever-to-be-fulfilled dreams of being a boxer (latent anger issues) so watching these Wall Street types pummel each other in the face and gut riled me up to join the wall of khaki in a fist-pumping, rabid raccoon frothing, "GET UP DANGEROUS JAY!" hooting frenzy. Dangerous Jay Neu, a T3 Capital boxer, won, by the way. The only time I almost threw up empathetically was during two knockouts where the poor fools wavered on their feet and wiggled into grey-face land and then, who could forget the bloody mess of chop meat that was once the mug of Scott "Belford Brawler" Bauer.

Throwing a kick-butt party and you want it covered in Just An Online Minute? Send invitations to kelly@mediapost.com !

Feel the fists of fury with the pictures on Flickr!