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Revolving Door

The Colonie’s 2nd Annual Party begins at the door on Fairbanks Court, where smiling interns welcome guests into a small, bright lobby. It is a friendly gesture, but it offers little hint of the madness to ensue. There is no mention of the decadence that will spill onto the street or the unsuspecting history buffs who will stumble into the mix or the life-threatening encounter that will confront me after last call. No. Those things are a long way from here.

So we might as well go upstairs.

Like most post-production suites, The Colonie’s space glows with approachable glamour. The nature of their work makes it easy. This is where they cut videos that light up tv sets across America.

A circular white wall flows over impeccable hardwood floors, complimenting a well-stocked bar in the reception area. Standard industry fare, yes; but tonight there is something different. The curves and lace of not one but two charming tendresses enhance the refreshments. Indulgence becomes necessity.

But first, a good idea to load up on solid nourishment. Around the corner, a scaled-down replica of America’s food pyramid makes a perfect hit and run snack buffet. Shrimp cocktail, cheese and crackers, sandwiches, wraps, chicken sate, beef sate and all the sauces you could want. Including mayonaise.

Throughout the room, photography by a featured artist of the month dominates the walls. As guests admire, nibble and sip, the space swells with players from Chicago’s advertising, film and music companies. Big Shoulders. CRC. DraftFCB. Filmworkers. Hootenany. Leo Burnett. Protokulture. They’re all here. Enough talent to write, cast, shoot, edit and brand an epic Chicago masterpiece. If not for the drinking.

At some synchronized, unspoken moment, the formalities disintegrate and conversations drift from sensible boredom to lively hogwash. An account executive and a research analyst discuss the bimbosity of a west coast fashion photographer. A writer criticizes the wingmanship of a midwestern art director. Hungry musicians ignore everyone and stuff food into their mouths like hungry musicians. The wine keeps flowing, the guests keep coming and “This Is Spinal Tap” plays in an office down the hall.

Now we’re having some fun.

Behind the bar a hostess shouts, “Let’s go outside!” and I realize that the normally subtle nod between smokers looking to share a cigarette has evolved into a victorious declaration.

Down on the street, middle-aged industry veterans blow sarcasm with recently hired employees, sharing the claim they shall inherit. An accidental procession of mild-mannered World War II enthusiasts — departing from a lecture about German hero Erwin “Desert Fox” Rommel at the Pritzker Military Library on the second floor — shuffles through the crowd. They smile at the questionable legality exhaling from the sharp-dressed mob obstructing their way. Abruptly, the hostess deflates into a ball on the sidewalk and announces, “I want to go home!”

When I offer to fetch a cab she springs back into form and darts upstairs.

By this point, it’s a frenzy. Stained carpets, unfinished drinks and, according to one source, “People hooking up, puking and spilling.”

A few ounces shy of the same, I call it a night and stagger to Rossi’s, the second-friendliest hell-hole in Chicago.