I have a social life for one and only one reason: for some inexplicable reason, there are businesspeople who think bloggers aren't completely useless.

On Saturday Intel (computer hardware) and Vice (fauxhemian lifestyle accoutrement) teamed up to present a seminar/party called the Creators Project. It's already been dubbed the party of the decade, and I'm not going to disagree. I went from thinking I'm reasonably creative to realizing I couldn't hold Spike Jonze's jockstrap.

I got there promptly at 2, when it opened, and ran straight for the Mira Calix installation "My Secret Heart." It's an abstract, indescribable 48-minute film on a huge, 360-degree screen, progressing from isolated dots to dancing ribbons to exploding silhouettes. For the soundtrack, she hired people at homeless shelters to sing her interpretation of some 17th-century choral shit. Absolutely brilliant.

Most of the other art pieces were interactive. Radical Friends scanned your face and projected it on endless loop above a pyramid. United Visual Artists had a wall of lights activated by movement. When you walked into Muti Randolph's twelve-foot cube of computer-controlled lights, it felt like you shrank to the size of a neutron and atoms were dancing around you.

Mark Ronson's seminar proposed to write a pop song in 59 minutes, then upload it to the internet to share. After he spent half an hour attempting to answer preposterously stupid questions from the audience, though, I ducked out to see the Rapture, who are apparently destined to be one-hit wonders. I consoled myself with a couple of portobello mushroom burgers, courtesy of Pop Burger, and Arte de Gelato ice cream. All, of course, complimentary.

"Hi," I said to the ice cream man. "Could I try the olive oil and the banana, please?"

"Sorry," came the reply. "We can only give you one flavor."

"Okay," I said. "Olive oil."

He scooped something white into a paper cup and handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said. I stood there and counted to ten. Then I said, "Hi, could I try the banana ice
cream?"

He smiled and gave it to me.

With time to spare before the big musical guests, I wandered from room to room. I had the first of a string of Camparis, trying to pace myself. I saw Spike Jonze's new robot love story, "I'm Here." Brilliant. No wonder dude got to marry a Coppola, though I'd have gone for Nick myself.

I have to say, the event was run pretty brilliantly, considering there were 3,000 guests. Unfortunately, though, around six the place started to get packed, so entire floors were randomly closed to new visitors. Elevators stopped going to certain floors. In one smallish gallery M. I. A. was showcasing artists from her record label, so I decided to stick close. Sleigh Bells came up first. I like their record, but in concert they're little more than karaoke. A great guitarist, an energetic singer, and a backing track with drums, synthesizer, and hand claps. Still, the crowd went crazy -- screaming and moshing and crowdsurfing -- though I'm thinking maybe the open bar had something to do with it.

Die Antwoord was up next. I'm still confused about them. The dude sings about being a ninja, and constantly says "yo yo yo." The chick is short, has a vocal range north of helium, and talks about how preposterously funky the beat is. Basically, it's Vanilla Ice with a dwarf. Googling them I discover fans are split on whether they're a joke or not. Again, the moshing and crowdsurfing are fun. Reprising the ninja song, not.

Then, of course, came "surprise guest" M. I. A. Her first two records were classic, so all I'll say is this: she's a good enough producer to know she needs gimmicks and guests onstage. Her posse rapped, poured drinks for the crowd, and tossed out all sorts of stuff. When controversy eventually fails her, she'll need to find more talented help.

By now it was 12:30, and I'd been packed like sardines in overheated rooms for six hours. My ears were ringing, and I could hardly have stayed upright even if the floors weren't a slip-and-slide of spilled alcohol. Heading to the exit, I ran into Mark Ronson DJing, so I detoured there. Ninety-nine percent of the crowd was smashed and dancing on every vertical surface. I decided to join them. I headed to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. "Nope," the bartender told me. "Can't make them."

I pointed to the vodka and the tonic. "Rules," he said. "Have you tried the signature Skyy vodka cocktail?"

"No," I said. "It better be good."

"If it isn't," he said, "you can spank me."

Sadly, it was.