Read Part I, Part II, and Part III
Face it: we all want our events to be their best, but we don’t always know how. The Art of Hosting is the guide to hosting you have been craving. It’s warm, candid, and full of practical advice for making your dinner party, barbecue, mixer, or wedding the best it can be. We hope you enjoy it!
Play some fucking music, you imbecile. It doesn’t matter if your kids are sleeping. Why the fuck did you invite a bunch of people over if your kids were going to be asleep, anyway? Do you realize your fucking party is like a fucking wake? You have a wall of records. Play some fucking music. Let other people play music. Now turn that shit up. If you’re afraid of waking up Jaden and Abigail, then you shouldn’t have had people over in the first place, you fucking shitbag. Jesus fucking Christ. Think about it.
If you’re fancy, you’ll get a DJ. Whatever. It’s your money. But you know what? Most DJs are vermin. They are territorial suckbags who think the party is some platform for them to express themselves. They don’t care what your guests want. They don’t fucking care. They don’t care if anyone dances. Your guests will ask him to play Earth, Wind and Fire and he’ll play Joy Division. He will sit in a corner of your house, alone, with no one dancing, and he will not fucking care. In Romania they used to execute people for this. Have you read history? You have? Are you sure? Then you know. You know that the Romanians of the 1950s rounded up all the self-important fucking DJs and executed them. Morrissey wrote a song about it.
Don’t give people a fucking tour of your fucking house. Every single fucking time anyone gives a tour of their home, eventually they get to a closet, and they say something about it being a closet, ha ha, I guess that’s obvious, ha ha, and at that moment the progress and purpose of ten thousand years of human evolution will be halted if not reversed entirely.
Hiding and Firing Up
You can’t fucking hide in a room or on your deck smoking pot with Gabe. This is your fucking event. You can’t hide. You’re not fucking sixteen.