We Went to One of Corey Feldman's Parties (Again)

By Dave Schilling

By now, the tale of woe that is Corey’s Angels is the stuff of legend. We went to his birthday party last year, took a bunch of photos he claimed were doctored to make the party look bad, and then our writer was accused of being a pervert. The irony of Corey Feldman accusing someone of sexual deviancy at a party where he charged men $250 to hang around women in lingerie was clearly lost on him.  

After a few weeks of Corey furiously tweeting his displeasure over the article, shit died down. Corey went back to retweeting any and all compliments he could find, and all seemed normal… until we saw an ad for a Corey’s Angels Valentine’s Day party. Which was, naturally, scheduled for February 22nd.

It’d be fair to assume we would have learned our lesson and stayed away this time, but like the producers of Lost Boys 2, we greedily went back for seconds despite having every reason in the world not to. Through cunning, guile, and perseverance (and a $300 entrance fee), we made it back to the Feldmansion.

Obviously, under no circumstance, would Corey allow someone from VICE back to one of his "parties," so I came up with a pseudonym and invented the backstory that my guest was from out of town and looking to get crazy. The party had a dress code demanding that all men wear suits, so I sucked in my gut and squeezed into my Sunday best. Cameras were banned this time around, so I took the cartoonist Johnny Ryan with me to draw what happened.

If $300 seems like a lot for two grown men to go to a party, you’ll be horrified to learn that it almost cost more, as Corey’s assistant called me up and tried to claim that the advertised “Early Bird Special” on their website should have been discontinued before we bought our tickets and that we'd need to give Corey an extra $200. We simply refused to pay more and went on our way.

As with any sequel, I looked forward to all my favorite characters coming back (Leathery Model, Sad Girl in Glasses, Street Fighter 2 machine, DJ Black Eyed Peas, and Brazilian Carnival Dancer), but in an even wackier, more elaborate scenario. For instance, in classic Corey Feldman film Gremlins, the titular monsters wreak havoc on a small town, but in Gremlins 2: The New Batch, the Gremlins are let loose in New York City, take over an entire skyscraper, and stage an elaborate musical number. There’s also a female Gremlin with big Gremlin tits, and Corey Feldman never shows up, which is kinda like how my night at Corey’s Valentine’s Day party played out.

We arrived at the party right at 9 PM, hoping that we would beat the rush of people, snag some free beverages, and get a little quality time with Corey. A very friendly man working the door (and by “working the door,” I mean standing in front of the driveway that leads to the guest house of a large McMansion where Corey lives) explained that there was still a ton of party prep to finish and that they’d be ready to let us in in 45 minutes.

Forty-five minutes stretched to an hour, and we were finally ushered inside. Despite its being an hour after the scheduled start time, we were half of the number of guests present (there were four, total) and remained as such well past 11 PM.

The party planners and security staff (who outnumbered the guests by a significant margin all night) let us know that only the game room was open. They were apologetic, as though there were wings of the house that would eventually be opened that had some inherent value the game room lacked.

“Game room” is probably an inaccurate usage of the term. There was a dartboard, but the room was too small to throw pointy projectiles in. The Street Fighter 2 machine was unplugged. There was a pool table, but the Monster Energy Drink towels, plastic plates, and assorted junk on it screamed “do not use me for my intended purpose.”

The only other guests at the party were two droopy-eyed young girls firmly planted on a couch, frantically texting hoping to convince someone else to join them. “I’m like, ‘Hey, come to this party in Encino,’” one said to the other. They were not successful.

I was content to stand around drinking lukewarm beverages all night, but the bartender alerted me to the fact that she only had six beers left in the fridge. At first, I was horrified at this clear lack of preparation, but after looking around at the empty room, I realized maybe they were better prepared than I thought.

I went back outside to enjoy my drink in peace. The Corey’s Angels logo was projected on the side of the house. The cabanas, advertised as available for the low, low price of $2,500 ($1,500 for Early Birds), sat empty. There were some novelty penis whistles and leftover Valentine’s candy in each cabana. There were actually cock decorations scattered around everywhere. There was a little dick piñata sitting next to the pool that, upon closer inspection, was confirmed to be empty.

Two security guards set up chairs around the driveway, which made me think there’d be a fashion show or a processional—something that would liven up the funereal atmosphere. I asked what the purpose of the chairs was, and I was told that they were “for the dance floor.” Maybe I don’t get out much, but I don’t know many clubs that have rows of plastic chairs lining their dance floors. Usually, chairs are for sitting and dance floors are for dancing. The two activities are diametrically opposed, unless the dancing is of the lap variety. 

Our host, presumably aware of the lack of attendees, stayed sequestered in his upstairs bedroom. Occasionally, he walked by the window that faced the dance floor, stared out at the empty abyss, and went back to frolicking with his Angels. The sounds of giggling and camera shutters were the only noises cutting through the incessant bass of the generic electronic music offered up by our DJ.  I had no idea what was going on in that room, but some things are better left to the imagination.

Three Asian people arrived around 11:30 (making seven confirmed guests), though none of them were adhering to the dress code. The man was not wearing a suit, and his two female companions had the audacity to wear clothes over their lingerie. I considered informing security, but the fact that I showed up to a Corey’s Angels party on time already made me look like a fucking narc. I didn’t need to make it worse.

Another group arrived, and I decided to see if they had any clue as to Corey’s whereabouts. A bald man whose claim to fame was “working in Beverly Hills” said he and his female companion were old friends of Corey's. “He usually comes out around 11:30,” he said. By the time we finished discussing scintillating topics like her upcoming clothing line and the joys of high school football, the number of guests had reached around 10 or 15.

Then finally, Corey came down the stairs flanked by the glorious Angels, looking like a rockabilly Beetlejuice. He wore a gold-striped suit, had his hair slicked back, and sported giant Bono-esque shades. A certain buzz filled the house, and the living room was finally opened up. I perused his large DVD collection (presumably, Corey hasn’t gotten Netflix since he moved).

I didn’t recognize any of the Angels from the last event, though I should be forgiven for being incapable of telling them apart. I saw Corey give marching orders to an Angel dressed in red lingerie. After he was done telling her he wanted this to be the “perfect party,” she walked over to us and commenced making small talk, telling us her name was Daisy.  She was better at pretending to flirt than I thought she would be. I could see Daisy graduating to the Playboy Mansion in no time. She had moxie.

A muscular, blonde Angel with massive biceps made a beeline to the Street Fighter 2 machine, which had recently been plugged in. I’d never called anyone’s arms “guns” earnestly until that evening. Fear seized my body as I realized that if Corey found out I worked for VICE, he’d sic his Super Mega Angel on me and she’d rip my dick off, salt and cure it, and turn it into cock jerky.

All I wanted to do was talk to Corey, maybe get him to tell me what “Ascension Millennium” means and sign my copy of Coreyography before I went home. Surely, he’ll mingle with his few guests as a sign of gratitude, I thought.

Nope. Corey squirreled himself and his preferred Angels away in a cabana, and he had his guileless assistant run to and from the bar bringing him drinks. He puffed on an e-cigarette and took some “official” posed photos with the girls.

Just as the night was really about to pop off and the attendance figure threatened to break 20, a helicopter started circling the residence, shining a huge spotlight into the front yard. Some of the Angels speculated that it was TMZ trying to get a glimpse at this glamorous, VIP-only event. One really frisky gal shook her breasts in full view of the spotlight, pointed at the helicopter, and screamed to Corey, “This is when you know you’ve made it!”

At first sight of the cops, Corey ran away and hid somewhere. 

Not long after, a lone police officer approached the house and calmly asked for the music to be turned off. You see, the new Feldmansion is in a quiet residential part of Encino, one full of older, conservative people not used to fancy Hollywood shindigs, and they weren’t about to have their night ruined by incessant techno beats. The music was shut off, and we were all forced to go back inside the game room, which comfortably fit those who hadn’t already left.

Corey never returned. It wasn’t enough that he had charged us all for the privilege of standing around his empty house—he also thought it would be totally cool to run away at the first sign of trouble.

Whereas the first Corey’s Angels party was a triumphant declaration of presumed relevance with the Feldmeister front and center, this time Corey couldn’t be bothered to hang out, and there wasn’t even any cake or Brazilian dancers. Like Gremlins 2, this party left me scratching my head. The day after the party, I emailed Corey's "assistant" to ask about a refund. I am yet to receive a reply. 

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