A Listless Correspondent

A Staffers Guide to Crashing The White House’s Biggest Bash

Brandon Garrett

Standing on the second floor balcony of the Corcoran Museum, talking to Keisha Whitaker about who knows what, Ludacris walks over, takes a picture and speaks to us.  Us, may be used loosely, but hey, I was there too.  But at that very moment, I am taken aback as I look at the new DC—the Obama District.  With a President and First Lady akin to the nationally known Prom King and Queen, DC’s cross section of people has changed. Of course you have your stalwart politicians and aides, lobbyist and lawyers, but their power is on the rise and Hollywood’s in the mix now too.  Earlier this year, I ran into both Brad Pitt and Usher on Capitol Hill.  The “political celebrity” has an ever-growing amount of clout.  From my perch on the balcony I observe Corey Booker and Desiree Rogers get just as many picture requests as Bon Jovi and Alicia Keys.  

With bank failures and high level investment analysts linked to the tidal wave of toxic assets, DC staffers, aides and lobbyists now stand atop of the fiscal food chain. No, they don’t make the money of General Gordon Gekko’s soldiers of fortune, but they are implementing rules for them to follow.  With Wall Street clamoring to cure itself, K Street and Pennsylvania Avenue have become the centers of influence.  All these superfluous ramblings illustrate just how “big” DC has become.  It also shows why it is so much “cooler” to be here at President Obama’s first White House Correspondents’ Dinner.  

How did I arrive at these parties, you ask?  Honestly, it wasn’t that hard.  Even with the security level at its highest and the terrorist alert always at red-orange, I have a couple of things in my arsenal that help in these situations: 1.) A gang of friends who write for everything and everyone and 2.) A tuxedo.  

My friend Helena gets a group of us together and tells us we are going to crash some formal party. When she drops the news, I am very casual. Of course, once it’s revealed to me that we are trying to crash the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, I turn into some scared kid who just broke his mom’s favorite piece of China.  I want to abort.  Now, I don’t want to wander aimlessly around DC in my tuxedo. I mean, I look good in it, but that’s just not on the top of my “things to do” list.  Nonetheless, I am cajoled into attending by three beautiful women—in fact, they have me driving to the Dinner.  

Helena has attended this event before. In a former life, say about 10 months ago, she was a White House Correspondent.  She knew the lay of the land and how the mission should work. However, although she is about to be a famous author and screenwriter (her book, Bitch is the New Black and subsequent movie is slated for 2010), for now she is only famous for her quick wits. 

Gizele and I, the budget and finance nerds, stand behind Helena and adhere to her urgings to “walk like we belong” on the red carpet.  We are finally at the entrance and it looks like a Hollywood movie premiere.  There are at least 100 photographers with blinding flashes and more than 500 fans, all screaming in varied directions. I look at them, bewildered—definitely a deer in headlights. In front of me is Padma Lakshmi, the hot host of Top Chef, behind me is some teenage celebrity (later, I found out it was Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl).  

We make it past the velvet rope. However, inside this venue there are pre-parties in every direction, all with young public relations assistants checking names at each door.  I glance into one of the entrances and catch cocktail hour in full swing.  I use Helena’s advice and just walk in.  

Upon entry we hit my favorite spot—the bar. I am 31 years-old and most of these liquors are at home on my shelf. But nothing gets me more excited and makes me appreciate DC more than the ubiquitous open bar.  “This night is going to be great,” I think to myself as I began drinking my Crown and ginger.  I turned from the bar and searched for celebrities in the crowd.  Standing right behind me is Supreme Court Justice Scalia. During my stint in law school a few years ago, I found that I wasn’t too fond of his decisions, but tonight it’s pretty cool to see him.  

After cocktail hour I peruse the The National Journal/Atlantic event for the “who’s who” in the room. While we are beginning to have Hollywood celebrities visit and film in DC, it’s hard not to be star struck when your favorite character’s right next to you.  I remember women briskly walking over to ‘that guy’ from Law & Order.  Gizele, one of my partners in crime, forced me to freeze in place because we were in reach of Bon Jovi. He was standing at the bar having a conversation with Alexandra Wentworth and George Stephanopolas.  

I entertain this for a moment. Even though Gizele and I have our cameras in tow, we opt not to whip them out for photo-ops—initially a nonchalant “when in Rome” attitude prevails. But then I see Kerry Washington.  She is stunning.  I make a beeline over to speak with her and take a picture.  This is phase one of my plan to Kevin Federline my way into the limelight, but with Kerry of course.  This is our third photo—once on Capitol Hill, then at the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation Legislative Ball and now here.  Although I can’t convince Ms. Washington to take our relationship seriously, at least I have the photo.  

I walk back over to my friends in delight and mingle with celebrities, political and actual. I have a quick conversation with Gwen Ifill about her book.  Then I small talk at the bar with Susan Rice. At a moment’s notice one of the worst things happens—the bar closes.  Not only is this problematic for the obvious reason, but that meant ‘actual’ invitees were headed to the Dinner.  If getting inside the pre party was tricky, getting inside the Dinner would have been a threat to national security. The chosen ones head through more metal detectors and into the ballroom for dinner, more drinks and entertainment from Ms. Wanda Sykes (who I saw later), the President and the First Lady (who I never even glimpsed). 

My cadre of friends head to a nice enough French restaurant nearby, fortifying ourselves to crash the Washington Life party at the Corcoran Museum.  

Post dinner, I realize that our group has grown.  Instead of one car pulling up to the museum we become a caravan of taxis teeming down 17th Street.  Once I exit the cab, I see a co-worker in line.  My only thought—get on the guest list.  I small talk a bit and peer around the side of the museum to look for a way inside.  My group follows me to a side entrance. A couple of people are already standing at the door trying to get someone’s attention to gain admittance.  They’re knocking and pleading to no avail.  However, my brilliance sometime scares me.  I find an intercom, press it and a voice barks, “The door is open.” We walk in—my original group, and the straggling “door knockers.”  We walk in so swiftly and with such authority that no staffer can ask us any questions. Past the kitchen we go, onto the main floor of the museum.  The place is spectacular, drenched in D.C.’s red, white and blue color scheme. 

Just as I did at the cocktail hour, I head straight for the bar.  The funny thing is that there are already a good 20 – 30 people inside the museum drinking and enjoying themselves—and the party has not even begun.   I guess I’ve discovered a community of political party crashers that infiltrate events in search of free booze and finger foods.  

Before the festivities ended, I talked with the Whitakers, Ludacris, Mariska Hargitay, Valarie Jarrett and, of course, my new girlfriend Kerry.  All and all, it was a great night.  DC may not be LA or NYC, but at least the Obama Administration knows how to throw a party.