Last summer I was walking around SoHo and tripped into a cute little store. Inside were all kinds of hints and tips on how to be more eco-conscious and all that other organic fun stuff. I saw these cute little buttons that said "GOOD" on them. Being the eternal pervert, I saw this as dirty, so I giggled like a 15-year-old boy and snatched a couple up and went home. Last Saturday early evening, almost a year later, I discovered what it was all about. I know. Sometimes it takes a while.

In a world where the I Can Haz Cheezburger guy can walk the same carpet as David Byrne, spikey-haired shy musical genius (have you played the building yet?), I'm glad I had my trusty flip camera to record some snippets to pinch myself with. Yes, last night was real, yes I asked Seth Meyers if it would make him uncomfortable if I told him I wanted to make sweet sweet love to him, and yes, having a chat with anyone from the Onion is both a fun yet paranoia-inducing experience. And this, my friends, is the Webbys.

Yesterday I lost about 10 lbs walking from 1140 Broadway to The Skirball Center on LaGuardia Place. Washington Square Park was packed with drum circles, stinky sweaty humans, and lazy fat squirrels. Perfect night for the Webby Film and Video Awards, don't you think?

I love food. I love watching people wield knives like magicians, and I want to hug Tom Colicchio. Which means that when I got the invitation to Chefs' Night Out (the big party thrown by Bon Appetit and others before the official James Beard Award ceremony), I put my homemade duck l'orange on hold and slipped out the door like a little neck clam down the throat of a Hampton's housewife.

Remember the good ole Science Fair days? You know the one, where your diorama of that elephant (made with homemade clay) just couldn't hold a candle to Chauncey's self-healing, genetically engineered hamster? So you peed your pants and cried? Remember that? Oh wait, that was me. I held it in, though, when I walked through the brain overload that was "An Evening at Maker Faire" in the bowels of Saatchi and Saatchi.

I smelled something as I rounded the corner of Nassau and Banker, heading towards Studio B for the Live Diggnation and Digg meetup. I couldn't put my nose on it, but it tickled something familiar. A memory fog descended, flashing back to my IBM days, when I used to plan the annual Kickoff meetings and pre-parties. That's it! It's the pungent odor of uber-nerds colliding with social situations! My lips crafted an exhausted but good-feeling smile as I dodged through the drizzle and Studio B came into view.

Blissful. Magnificent. Sparkly. Surreal. That was last night. The event went down at the Museum of Modern Art (or if you're punk rock, MoMA) and was flawlessly thrown by AICP, celebrating the Art and Technique of the American Commercial. It was a black-tie affair and I, without a black tie, did my best to blend as I trounced in between the gussied up crowd in my little Payless wedge sandals, toughened up against the couture intimidation.

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?"

Monday Monday, can't trust that day. I never got that little lyrical blurb. I mean, a day can't really do anything to you. I guess unless you're the mamas and the papas and maybe you've licked a sheet of turtle-logo'd acid. Then maybe, maybe (to you) a day can actually not be trusted. Today, though, you wily women and spastic men who attended COREMedia's 16th Anniversary/Keep a Child Alive benefit last Thursday night should be a little nervous Monday is packing. Because... you people were NUTS.