Sean Combes

by Sam Johnson

What I learned this week:
1. Waking up super early and taking a nap in the middle of the day is a much better way to
A. Get more done.
B. Feel better about napping.

For whatever reason I was working this job a couple of weeks ago with a friend of mine named Jamie who is a Performance Artist. He does all kinds of amazing shit like upholster weapons with stolen authentic Louis Vitton patent leather. When he's not spelling "RATS" with raw meat in alleyways, he's hiring me to help run (literally- like with my f'ing legs) large scale events around Los Angeles. Where I grew up, the companies that help you throw parties hold titles like Party Time; but alas even though the Grammy Awards are nothing more than a fraternal celebrity circle jerk with a guest list, it takes jerks like Jamie and I to make sure John Mayer has a red carpet to spooge on. Jamie and I don't throw parties. We "host events." Bitch.

Actually I don't really do much except get Jamie coffee and hang things for 16 to 18 hours a day. Well that's not entirely true, my job consists of hanging things and while Jamie is off taking care of other things (more coffee), I am sometimes left in charge of... oh... the ENTIRE production while he's gone. Convincing anyone that you're in charge while you hang five dollar IKEA lamps is hilarious. "TRUST ME," I yell from the top of a 35 foot ladder. "YOU GUYS HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE STAGING GUYS. UNLESS YOU WANT THE STAGE TO GO ON TOP OF THE FUCKING RED CARPET. WHAT? NO, I HAVE NO IDEA IF JOHN MAYER WILL BE WEARING THE 'BORAT' COSTUME."

An active member of the Fraternal Celebrity Circle Jerk Club is Sean Combes ala P. Diddy. Since Diddy hasn't sung "uh huh, yeah" over anyone else's music in the past few years, Grammy carpet hasn't been in spooging distance for the producer cum artist cum actor cum reality tv host cum cum. So being the entrepreneurial spirit that he has the money to now afford, Diddy has taken to throwing his own Celeb Circle Jerks. And Jamie and I were just the Jerks for the job. My task for this particular fraternal gathering was to hang a thousand huge picture frames that I had spent a whole day outfitting with fake plexiglass mirrors. And simultaneously run things. "IT'S COOL DUDE. YEAH OVER THERE. NO, I MEAN NORMALLY I'M A MUSIC PROGRAMMER SO I JUST DO THIS SOMETIMES TO GET THE BLOOD GOING. THE B-L-O-O-D GOI... aw forget it you d-bag."

The last time I had hung these particular huge fake picture frames was for a Fredericks of Hollywood lingerie fashion show, headlined by the Foo Fighters. It took four guys 32 hours of non-stop work to accomplish the feat. I didn't sleep for two whole days and collapsed a day later, convulsing and tear stained on the ground. Breathing through every pore, I ripped through the most insane anxiety attack of my life with "duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh THERE GOES MY HEE-RO!!!" playing over and over in my head.

Lunchtime arrived the day before the Diddy Event and my brother and I (who I had conned into helping me) were only an eighth of the way done hanging, which meant another all nighter. I was planning a Notorious B.I.G. song for my next panic attack when the following happened so fast I would have never known that for the rest of my life I would think fondly of Mr. Combes. It went like this:

-Diddy shows up
-Diddy hates everyting
-Diddy hates frames I'm hanging
-Diddy leaves
-Reality TV crew filming Diddy gets killer footage of Diddy in charge
-My brother and I go to get coffee

Diddy came back the next day, camera crew in tow, to observe his new Spooge-ma-torium. "Now THIS is what a 4 million dollar party looks like!" he clamored. I guess he got on the mic a few times during the party and said that a few times, each time. I don't know what he pays his people, but that party cost less than one quarter of one million dollars. While I waited deliriously to leave, the party finally kicked off and I hunkered in a faux hallway made from drapery with David Spade. He was already hammered and was actually insanely funny. "H-oh my Ghod, H-I'm lhike the h-only white guy hhere," he squeaked.

I need a nap I thought. It's a good thing I got up early.

Sam Johnson is a music programmer and plays in bands.