Ann Coulter wrote abook. It’s her tenth! Congratulations, Ann! We don’t know much about the etiquette of these things, but evidently the tenth is the “fluorescent” anniversary in publishing, since her friends at the Daily Caller invited everyone over to their place this week to celebrate.

We arrived fashionably late and rode up to the Daily Caller's ninth floor clubhouse with two guys in loosened ties who were comparing smoothie diets. When the elevator doors opened, we were blown back by a swirling mass of security goons and video cameras filling the hall in front of us, with a reed-thin figure in royal blue at the center. Coulter was on the move.

We trailed the ball of light and sound into a crowd of drunk conservatives.

It was a hot party. Literally hot. The oblong office partyroom, with its built-in bar and blocky red couches and sadly idle popcorn cart, had to be approaching 90 degrees and everyone was covered in sweat.

Ann swirled around for a few minutes charming the masses and swept back down the hall to sign more books.

Some guy jumped up on one of the couches to say something urgent, probably HAVE A GREAT TIME, EVERYBODY, which we could not hear because “Friends in Low Places” was blaring from a pair of tiny speakers directly behind us.

We spotted Elizabeth, our bar buddy from the Daily Caller's Uncle Speculum party. She’d made friends with Lynne, a Coulter fan who’d come to get some books signed, and we took turns in the drink line while having a highly satisfying debate about the race for governor in Virginia.

We were talking about Rand Paul’s plans to campaign for the Cooch over the weekend when there was a commotion outside the door.

Tucker Carlson, the Daily Caller himself, suddenly appeared with Ann to give her a glowing introduction in which he praised her for writing her own books unlike the other phonies in this town, and then he told us all to get drinks and bring them down the hall since “Ann says this room sucks. I’m not paraphrasing.” We realized that Ann was probably sitting in an office with only Tucker and her bodyguards because everyone who had come to get books signed had been and gone, but this room had the bar and everyone wanted to be where the booze was even if it felt like we were standing on the surface of the sun.

Tucker got a beer and started working the crowd. We grabbed Elizabeth and we made our way past a stack of Ann’s latest hardcover wisdoms, to where she was seated behind a table in a room otherwise empty of furniture. Given the proximity of her bottle of Purell, we were not surprised that her handlers told us to “lean in” from across the table when we asked for a picture (That's us up top. Ann's the seated one looking worried about liberal cooties).

As we were leaving we passed Tucker, who was drinking in the doorway, and gave him the warmest of greetings on behalf of the Wonket Nation. “I was at your thing at the 201. I didn't see you there.”

“I was in rehab,” he said, his nose buried in a plastic keg cup.

Happy tenth Ann Coulter book, everybody!


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