Yesterday was one of those dear god, just get me through this days ... I did shows on three networks (FoxNews, Fox Business, and one that will be broadcast both here and in China!) and two evening events - one book party at the Bloomingdale's in Soho for Imogen Lloyd-Webber (yes, the daughter of Andrew, and yes, she's STUNNING and yes, she went to Cambridge. Totally unfair combo, of course), and then a brief stop at the Radar party.
Below, a few photos from the Soho book party.
with the lovely and very sweet Imogen Lloyd Webber
These guys all had British accents. Three of them were single.
Guess which one flirted the hardest? Hint: not the single one!
with Meghan Asha and Emily Gould
It's in Emily's Gawker contract that she has to roll her eyes in photographs with me.
My beautiful cousin Andrea got married on Sunday in Santa Barbara, California, and my entire family was there. My parents live in Chicago, my brother in Boston, my grandparents in LA, so I don't get to see them together frequently. I don't feel like that's the way things should be, but I'm not moving to any of those cities anytime soon. I spent more hours on various airplanes and connecting airports than I did at the actual wedding, but I could have traveled for a week straight and it would have still been worth it.
Anyway, here's a little Wedding Album for those who couldn't make it ;)
My parents (married 29 years) and maternal grandparents (married 67 years!) with my younger brother and me (not even remotely married for any years)
My grandfather walked my cousin Andrea down the aisle (her father had passed away). It was practically illegal not to tear up.
My mom was a bridesmaid, which she at first thought was ridiculous ("I'm too old to be a bridesmaid!!") but I think she eventually came around. After all, what idiot decided that there was an age limit to being special to the bride?! I thought she looked beautiful.
My father looked dapper in his tux - and Andrea and I decided that men should just wear dinner jackets the majority of the time. You almost can't go wrong.
My brother's adorable girlfriend of FOREVER (they even dated in high school), Allie. The family loves her. She's the Mary Poppins of girlfriends - practically perfect in every way. We keep worrying she's going to realize she can do better and dump him. hahah
What's a wedding without forcing your brother to dance with you??
Saturday night I was at Jakob, Ricky, Josh and Zach's Rubik's Cube party in Tribeca. The concept of such a party, in case you've never had the pleasure of attending one (and I highly recommend it), is that you come dressed in the six colors of a Rubik's Cube - namely, RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, GREEN, BLUE and WHITE. Then, throughout the evening you switch colors with someone else until you're all one color. How brilliant is that??
Although, I have to admit, I liked my original outfit so much that I refused to trade with anyone. Er. Oops?
With Ricky's adorable girlfriend, Anna Marie. I am madly in love with her!!! I hope they date forever.
With Ricky Van Veen!! Ricky's like a golden retriever puppy.
With Leven Rambin and Meghan Asha!!
Everyone looks so much ... HAPPIER ... in bright colors.
Just some guy I met at the party.
He wanted me to take off my green socks and make out in the bathroom, but I'm not that kind of girl. We talked and drank water. Actually, I'm not joking about that last part. HA
Google Knows How to Party! Wasted Two Hours of My Life.
Their "party" yesterday night really blew. And it's not just because they didn't yet have a Google Husband Finder (TM), even though I asked specifically for them to get on that, already. It's because of (but not limited to):
1) them having security that would be appropriate if we were entering Angelina & Brad's hotel room, or, say, The Pentagon, but yeah, not really for a "consumer media welcome event." There were like four checkpoints, and more Google employees "monitoring" the room than actual reporters attending the event. Also, they actually TURNED MEDIA AWAY, which was confusing, because it was a really sparse crowd - all of seven registered guests had actually showed. And they were from budgettravel.com.
2) them passing out freaking primary colored BABY BOTTLES (but calling them "sports sippers" ... uh. right.)
3) them having the crappiest food (cold & gross mac & cheese, cold & gross pizza, just gross sushi, and GOLDFISH?) since I last ate at my high school cafeteria. Except my high school cafeteria WASN'T WORTH 10 BAJILLION DOLLARS.
4) them not realizing that their stupid event had NO FREAKING POINT. Why am I here? What is the REASON for this? I asked myself repeatedly, and sometimes my shrinking violet party-companion, Emily Gould. The answer, according to the strange hovering spokespeople, was to "introduce the consumer media to how Google could be a part of every moment in your life." Ah, now I see. Creepy. And, well, not really true! Other than showing us Google calendar (um - wow. Yeah, already knew about that. Already determined it was crappy!), and Google photo something or other uploader, I couldn't figure out how this event showed me anything other than Google took their "Primary Colors" theme very seriously (I matched, luckily.)
5) and finally, the most egregious, least explicable Google move of them all - the directive that "no photos or video shall be taken at the party or on the premises." Um ... huh??? WHY!?!?! They had no clear explanation for this, other than it was "just a decision they had come to." Sure! That makes sense!! Invite the press with the intention of sucking up to them but TELL THEM NOT TO COVER IT - and, while you're at it? Act like you're trying to hide something in a really sketchy way!! Brilliant PR move, right there. Who's doing evil now, bitches???
6) One more thing: their offices really suck.
That little yellow square I'm holding says "Google" on it. Maybe if they had spent their money on a GOOD CATERER instead of POINTLESS LANDFILL-READY PLASTIC LOGO-EMBLAZONED FAKE ICE CUBES, they'd have had a better party. but no.
Here's the 2 second video I did manage to film, before Evil Google Lady told me "it wasn't cool."
What, like you don't bring your laptop to amateur charity stand up comedy events FOR THE TROOPS?
Yeah, I didn't exactly, uh ... prepare ahead of time. But I have to say, being able to check your email in the middle of a set is a huge bonus.
PS. You may think I have no creativity lately with which to spice up my outfits. Incorrect. I have no money lately with which to shop for new ones! Thus, headbands and American Apparel tee/skirt combos. I apologize. I will try to remedy this weekend.
Dr. Bobby and I went to the Metropolitan Opera to see Romeo & Juliet on Tuesday night. It was gorgeous (of course), and the vocal gymnastics blew my mind, although to be honest, the story's been getting on my nerves lately. I saw R&J at Shakespeare in the Park earlier this summer with my mom, and for some reason it pissed me off that they fell in love after like, 2 minutes. It's hard to feel badly for a lovelorn couple when they DON'T EVEN FREAKING KNOW EACH OTHER. Am I being too literal? It just rang hollow to me. I kept thinking "I want to shake these idiots! Does Romeo even know Juliet's middle name? NO HE DOES NOT BECAUSE HE JUST MET HER 30 SECONDS AGO." I recommend living together for a minimum of 12-18 months before you decide to commit mutual suicide.
I got a new dress! I'm not telling you where it's from. Okay. Fine. You can buy it here. Shut up.
Betsey Johnson's Spring 2008 show, held in the Tents at Bryant Park (on September 11th) was my absolute favorite of ALL the collections I saw the entire week. Hello, the theme was PROM, for chrissake!!! It's almost impossible for me to describe without using egregious exclamation marks and lots of incredulous, positive expletives, so let's just put it this way: I squealed throughout the entire thing. SQUEALED. Which totally humiliated my friend and fashion week companion, the designer Mary Rambin. She appreciated the theatrics, but not so much the crinoline. As for me, petticoats and giant bows with poofs and flounces worn at a giant pink sparkle covered dance is my idea - literally - of heaven. Check out Betsey's collection below:
Thanks to the extraordinary talents of the ever capable, always patient Eric Lodwick for making all of my Star Magazine Fashion Week videos possible.
Dear God, I love the prom. I would go to prom every year for the rest of my life, if I could. Twice a year, even.
Fashion week is over, but I still have show writeups to do ... not to mention, a few television appearances.
9:30-11 am - prep for day's segments
12 pm - tape FoxNews Lips & Ears [Star's Scoops of the Week, Britney's VMA performance & Lindsay's sex addiction]
1:50 pm - FoxNews The Live Desk [Kanye West's reaction to Britney's VMA performance, claims MTV exploited her]
3:30 pm - MSNBC - Live [Rosie O'Donnell's new book says Barbara Walters is old]
4:20 pm - MSNBC - Live [Rosie O'Donnell's new book]
5:15 pm - go see possible new apartment, which will probably be size of a Chanel handbag, but slightly more expensive every month
6 pm - interview dog owners on the street for column. does your dog get you laid?
8 pm - see a completely obnoxious boy who totally doesn't deserve me
10:20 pm - FoxNews - On the Record with Greta Van Susteren [Rosie O'Donnell's new book]
From tonight's Marc Bouwer show, which was achingly gorgeous - both the sharp black & whites and the stunningly bright rainbow hued dresses. Absolutely my favorite collection of the week, better even than L.A.M.B.
I sat in the front row next to Courtney Friel, here in Robert Rodriguez with Louboutin heels. I'm wearing Chanel and Manolos. We both felt very fabulous indeed.
Behind the Scenes at NY Fashion Week - Spring 2008
Shot on August 30 at Time Out New York.
Nanette Lepore suit, Chanel bag, Nine West heels
Above is one of my Fashion Week outfits. What, like you didn't think I had them all planned out? Foo. I'm like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless when she looks in her closet and it's all computerized with polaroids and schedules of what she's worn when. Except my closet isn't actually computerized. YET. Anyway, I'm just hoping everyone thinks these shoes are YSL and not Nine West. I know, I know, wrong crowd to attempt trickery with ... But c'mon, who the hell can afford $650 shoes?!?! Four words: NOT. EVEN. REMOTELY. ME.
From Sept 5 - 12, I'll be IN THE TRENCHES (wearing trenches? hmm) covering Fashion Week for Star Magazine. We'll be posting my SUPER EXCLUSIVE BEHIND THE SCENES commentary & videos on StarMagazine.com - although I'll put up links here. PLEASE, people, don't rush to ask me about the latest trends all at once now. I'm a Style Guru, obviously, but I'm only human (thus the Nine West shoes). I'll take your questions one by one.
PS - In case you want to keep up on Fashion Week with multiple sources (aside from my own rigorously detailed commentary, of course), I recommend reading The Fug Girls at New York magazine, who are beyond brilliant - they make me cry with their sartorial wit. It's really sad, actually. For me. Also, check out Fashionista, which is a bit Insider-Baseball, but that can be a welcome change from the sweeping generalizations ("Black is in! Coats are in!! We like Marc Jacobs!") in many women's magazines. Not sure about their love for TeenVogue, but hey, no blog's perfect. Finally, Jezebel will probably have some commentary, too, and it will no doubt be written with that slightly twisted but excessively real approach for which I unconditionally love them.
So Meghan and I flew out to San Francisco for last night's Techcrunch party, which I had heard was "harder to get into than Studio 54 in its heyday" (according to Newsweek). I adore tech guys. No, not cause they're rich. Because they can fix my computer. Duh.
ACTUAL TECHCRUNCH PARTY CONVERSATIONS, TRANSCRIBED VERBATIM (I shit you not. Seriously.)
Tech Geek #1: "Rupert Murdoch bought my last company." Tech Geek #2: "Oh yeah? I co-own a business with Bill Gates. Since I was EIGHTEEN."
Julia: "Why won't anyone ask for my phone number tonight? What am I doing wrong?!" Cute Tech Girl Blogger: "All the ITers out here, they want the girl in the next cubicle!" Julia: "I AM the girl in the next cubicle! Except I work from home."
Tech Geek #3: "I'm not going to date anyone who doesn't have a Wikipedia page."
Julia: "But aren't they all 'nice guys' here?" Cute Tech Girl Blogger: "That's a total misconception. They think just because they're not date raping you they're a nice guy. Um ... no."
Julia: "Is your social life representative of Silicon Valley?" Cute Tech Lawyer: "What social life? I go on bike rides!!"
Nothing says "IT'S TIME TO FUCKING PARTY" like ... uh ... laptops.
After party pizza, thanks to the adorable Mike Arrington. I'm a big fan of Mike, despite making quite possibly the worst first (and second) impression, ever. Never underestimate the danger of a video blogger with Final Cut Pro and an inability to detect sarcasm.
So, yesterday (" 'Merrrica Day" as I like to call it, a la Jon Stewart) while you all were patriot'd up in red, white & blue, hanging out with your 'Merican homies at your 'Merican outdoor bbqs, shotgunning 'Merican beer and shoving enormous quantities of ground up 'Merican hooves & intestines "hotdogs" into your 'Merican mouths, I was ... well, not doing that.
In fact, I watched the east river fireworks while in my pjs, perched on my radiator, through my windows (witness above shot) totally by myself. Because true patriotism rolls solo. Pioneer style, bitches! Also, it was rainy and I was feeling anti-social and unwilling to make small talk.
Honestly, watching through the windows wasn't bad - the show was fairly spectacular (although I would have enjoyed a nice Cowboy Hat firework or two), and the commute was ideal. But the entire time I kept thinking "I really need to freaking Windex these." And so, during the grand finale, that's exactly what I did.
And then I started thinking "This would make a great commercial for Windex."
Which actually seems pretty damn 'Merican thing to think. Happy 4th of July, Land 'o Commerce and Chemicals!
Missing gratuitous glamour shots? Yeah, thought so. Well, enjoy, cause you're not getting much prose out of me this week ... I'm having some sort of stress related anxiety attack kind of thing going on, and it's infringing on my ability to even focus on procrastination-based-blogging. Which is a new low, even for me.
Below, with the incredible Alyssa Shelasky (Glamour's dating blogger), at the College Humor carnival themed party last Saturday night in the Hamptons. Alyssa has to be one of (if not THE) nicest girls I've ever met in Manhattan - I absolutely adore her, and will be staying at her Southampton house as often as she'll have me ;)
Alyssa has legs that make grown men cry. Seriously.
See evidence at bottom right hand corner. Mmm. I'd rather eat an enormous, so-sugar-saturated-it-would-kill-small-dogs grocery store birthday sheet cake than literally anything else, save perhaps just a can of frosting, straight up. Yes, I realize I have a problem.
Above, a screenshot from the "Movin' On" party we threw for my gorgeous, brilliant, pink-dress wearing friend Meghan, complete with boas, tiaras, and cosmos (at 1 pm on a Sunday afternoon!) for a Today Show segment about the new book It's a Breakup, Not a Breakdown. It aired yesterday, but you can watch it here - and you should, if only to hear Al Roker say "Show of hands, who thinks Meghan is going to have a hard time getting another boyfriend? She's GORGEOUS!" and then laugh hysterically.
Crap I Did This Weekend, Part 1 - Saturday Night Live Season Finale After Party
Saturday night was SNL's season finale wrap party, which I swang by with the (newly 17!) and absolutely adorable Leven Rambin. Not really in the mood to do a comprehensive write up at this moment, but a few quick notes ...
If I had my own Julia version of the Gawker Stalker, I would report that shortly after introducing myself to a completely disinterested (but HOT) Ivanka Trump [conspicuously absent - boy-mogul-toy Jared Kushner], I saw myself knock a wine glass out of her hand, splashing it all over, shattering it on the ground, and mauling the feet of various party-goers while she looked at me as if I had a serious form of contagious mental retardation. Super smooth. As usual.
Also spotted - Renee Zellweger, Zach "the douchebag" Braff, Andy Samberg (um, obviously, right?), Sarah Chalke (who is as sweet and unpretentious as Zach is, well, a douchebag and douchebaggish), Heroes' Zach Quinto and 30 Rock's Lonny Ross. Below, another 30 Rock'er, the absolutely stunning Katrina Bowden, who could be Leven's twin, as well as a younger Christine Taylor, circa her "Hey Dude" period. Needless to say, taking a photo sandwiched between the two of them was not one of my brighter ideas. Nothing like 17/18 year old blonde bombshells to make one feel old, dowdy, and very, very fat.
30 Rock's Katrina Bowden, Not-a-Blonde-Actress me, All My Children's Leven Rambin
Leven's heel (the black one) by Prada. Mine by ... oh hell. Nine West. Jealous?
There are probably about four people alive who can fully comprehend the enormity of this for me, but I'll attempt an explanation. Ana - back when she wrote DC's political blog Wonkette - was the very first person to ever make fun of me online (an impressive distinction, really). She called me out when I was a baby sex columnist at Georgetown, after the then-Washington Post gossip reporter Lloyd Grove busted me for seeing ex-Rep Harold Ford. Lloyd is now a friend of mine (Harold, not so much), but although I kept hearing about Ana through the media grapevine, attended some of the same parties - and even re-enacted conversations involving her - I never managed to actually get a face-to-face ... until last night, when she sat down TWO SEATS FROM ME. Ahh!
It blows my mind that it could take five years for us to actually meet, but I have to say - totally worth the wait. I've always respected Ana's writing; she's fucking smart, and the most hysterical political writer since Chris Buckley. Like many women writers (okay, women in general), she's incredibly self-deprecating with regard to her work, albeit unnecessarily so. She gets far less credit than Maureen Dowd, while consistently being a better writer and thinker. Also, she's much hotter. Which is neither here nor there, of course, but it's something I really can't help but add, namely because I'm a shallow bitch who's always secretly wanted to be a redhead, damnit.
In the interim, because I know you can't possibly wait ONE MORE SECOND, here are a few of my favorite photos from the event and subsequent afterparties. Despite the decidedly weak comic performance of poor Mr. Little, it was, frankly, a fucking incredible time.
with my good friend from college, Alexander Marquardt,
now an unbelievably talented anchor on Channel One.
Philippe Reines, Hillary Clinton's Press Secretary,
and a truly phenomenal seat-sharer, right behind a certain belligerent Karl Rove.
Right, so obviously I haven't been keeping up very well, as Dana Vachon's book party (remember him? Shortest book review ever?) happened way back on Tuesday April 10, but whatever, better late than ... you know.
So, the birthday is this Wednesday, Feb 28th, a date I find approaching with uncomfortable rapidity. Especially since I want to have a massive party, hopefully involving a lot of tights and tiaras. The problem, of course, is I haven't actually, you know, planned anything yet. Um ... oops? Right.
So I'm either going the "spontaneous" route or I'll have it next week and it will probably be just as shoddily-arranged, but not on my actual birthday. Isn't there a way to have a fantastic party, without having to do any work at setting it up?? Where's MTV's My Super Sweet 16 when you need them, damnit!?!
Either way, it's going to be 80s themed and I'm wearing the dress below. Because, c'mon, what's a birthday without a Poufy Sparkle Rainbow Dress with Ginormous Puffed Sleeves, singing along to Journey? NOT A BIRTHDAY AT ALL.
Right. And here are a few extra photos from the event. I would write more - specifically about the after party and how I had to explain WHO TINSLEY WAS to several clueless CAA agents - but I haven't actually slept in three days (with the questionable exception of five hours on the plane), so instead of attempting to match verbs with nouns, I'm going to crawl into bed and emerge on Sunday. Or 10 am, whichever comes first.
I wasn't on party crash detail, so I won't really get into the Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto's book launch Tuesday night except to say it was very, very, very gay. I mean, exceedingly gay. Gayer than Ryan Seacrest. Gayer than Anderson Cooper. Gayer than Neil Patrick Harris.
Mmm, Neil Patrick Harris.
But then again, that's to be expected for a party hosted by Perez Hilton, below. Who is gay. In case you weren't aware, I've drawn it on his photo. You know, just to remove any lingering doubts from your mind. In other words, LADIES, HANDS OFF! Seacrest, on the other hand...
photograph by the lovely Kate. Photoshop addition by me.
Jann's tree has mag covers - mine has condoms. To each his own.
I've officially completed my party-crashing duties and am now safely ensconced in my Chicago childhood home for a week, forced to decorate trees and walk dogs and such. Fine. I don't care what I have to do, as long as it doesn't involve A) wearing makeup B) talking to strangers C) flirting with bouncers or D) waking up at 6:30 am. Okay, fine. waking up at any point in the AM ...
NO BAND, LITTLE BOOZE, BUT FOOD (FOR MUNCHIES?) AT WENNER PARTY
There was one last big blowout to catch before Holiday Party Season 2006 wound down: The annual Wenner Media extravaganza. With the bank busted on Rolling Stone's 1,000th-issue celebration in May, this year's holiday gathering was less glitzy in the past, with no big-name musical act slated to perform. But that didn't stop indefatigable party reporter Julia Allison. Her wrap-up — her final wrap-up of the season — is after the jump.
It was easy to find Ultra, the West Side club hosting the Wenner Media holiday party, last night: It was the bar with the 30-foot Christmas tree out front made up entirely of Wenner covers. Inside, Rolling Stone, Us Weekly, and Men's Journal staffers were packed more tightly than at any holiday party we'd seen. With movement almost impossible and gridlock around the lone bar, some guests got cranky. "It doesn't feel like a holiday party," said one Rolling Stoner. It was loud, too, though we liked the music. (George Michael and "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"? Did Jann approve of this playlist?). Photographers circled the room, and the picture-crazy crowd was more than happy to pose, whipping out their own cameras for additional shots, too — a behavior we did not see at any other party and for which we squarely blame Us Weekly. (Magazine editors — they're just like us!)
At one point bubbles — Christmas bubbles? — fell from the ceiling, but staffers were unimpressed. "This sucks," grumbled a guy who said he'd been at "hundreds" of Wenner parties. "Maroon 5 played one year." It seems the recent blowout 1,000th-issue bash left this party's budget lower than usual. "We only had money for food, basically," an event producer explained. It was good food, though: kabobs of various sorts; a sushi stand; and a chocolate fountain with marshmallows, strawberries, and Rice Krispies Treats. The liquor selection was apparently less impressive. "I asked for a single-malt scotch," kvetched one Rolling Stone editor. "I got Maker's Mark." (Judging by the sweet smell wafting from the VIP room, booze may not have been the big shots' inebriant of choice.) Even so, revelers looked happy. "This is ten times better than last year," said one. "Instead of congregating in cliques, people have to actually talk to each other." Jann and Janice were MIA — sick, said one guest; on vacation, said another — so we had to console ourselves with the "semi-credible rumor" that Justin Timberlake would attend. He never showed — and so he missed the gingerbread men frosted with "Wenner Media" given to guests on their way out. His loss.
Verdict: Food: 4; drink: 3.5; venue: 4 (if you like packed crowds; if not: 3); debauchery: 3.5; exclusivity: 3.5
Day 6: Holiday Party Crash - Daily News and Star Magazine
I couldn't be bothered to put on makeup last night, so there will be no photographs posted of the actual evening (just a Slutty Santa stock photo, done up Perez Hilton style). I'm in the home stretch of holiday party crashes, and suffice it to say, I'm very close to NEVER WANTING TO GO TO A PARTY EVER AGAIN.
EATING - AND EATING! - WITH THE 'DAILY NEWS'; DRINKING AND DANCING WITH 'STAR'
With less than a week left till Christmas, company-holiday-party season is nearing its end. But for a last few fabulous nights, it keeps going strong — and naturally crasher extraordinaire Julia Allison is there. Last night she hit the Daily News do at the Copa and the Star shindig at Dirty Disco. Which one had a face-painter? Which one had only caffeinated vodka? Julia's reports await.
• The immense West Side dance club Copacabana seemed an odd choice for the employees-only Daily News holiday party. Did they really need that much space? Would they really use the enormous dance floor? Was someone really under the impression it was hip? ("His name was Morty; he was a mogul …"?) Actually, in the newspaper biz, one thing is most important: proximity to work. "In case we have to crawl back afterward," a Newsie explained. Neither Rush nor Molloy was sighted, nor editor-in-chief Martin Dunn — perhaps they'd already crawled back — but a 200-strong gang happily devoured dinner at several dozen tables while others washed down their meals by the large bar. A fedora-wearing face-painter made his rounds; only one employee — from the Brooklyn bureau — took him up on it, though that was one more than we'd have guessed. Later, as the lights were dimmed and the music turned up, a brave handful actually started dancing. "I'm not Latin, but I feel Latin being here," said one. We didn't feel Latin. We felt like we were at a bar mitzvah with old people and good food. Really good food. Did we mention the food? It was the best we've seen in our holiday-party-crash career: Three massive buffets held grilled veggies, couscous, chicken, lamb chops, fish, steak, and shrimp. And the desserts! Chocolate cake, apple pie, carrot cake, a selection of fruit — raspberries, strawberries, kiwi, pineapple — and a sundae stand. Columnist Michael Daly was chewing roast pork alongside colleague Denis Hamill. How's the party? "There's an old saying," yelled Hamill, still chewing his pork. "If it ain't jaded, it ain't journalism." Um, okay. Any favorite part? "The applesauce." He didn't so much as smile. Verdict: Food: 5; drink: 3.5; venue: 3; debauchery: 3; exclusivity: 3.5
• Down on 14th Street, at Dirty Disco, we strolled easily past the velvet rope and bouncer and into Star magazine's party. At one point more than 200 people had crowded inside, we were told, but by 9:30 the party was clearly winding down, with just a few stragglers still dancing on tables to blasting hip-hop. (As we entered, it was "Promiscuous Girl." Hmm. Then again, the invite featured a winking, Santa-hatted Janice Dickinson.) Yelling was the only possible method of communication, and so adorable deputy New York bureau chief David Caplan had lost his voice — if not his holiday spirit — by the time we arrived. There were specialty drinks — "Star martinis," featuring caffeinated vodka — but nothing else for free at the bar, to not a few guests' chagrin.) There was also no food, so intoxication levels were high. Who was invited? Star employees, of course, but also: "Basically there was a list of haves and have-nots," explained Caplan, giggling. "I only wanted the haves." (See "high intoxication levels" above.) Apparently this included famous party-crasher Shaggy, who gave us some advice: "Just put one foot after the other." Britney Gastineau had arrived, clad in "full-on fur," toured around the party, took photos, and exited to meet Jonathan Cheban, waiting outside in a car. Bonnie Fuller, too, had been and left. Did she dance? "Bonnie was very sensible," Caplan said diplomatically. Fellow editor Jon Auerbach was less cautious. "Bonnie was crazy," he said, "doing the robot and the running man. She and Joe [Dolce] did the lambada!" He was also probably pulling our leg. Verdict: Food: 0; drink: 4 (if you really like caffeinated vodka; if not: 1); venue: 3.5; debauchery: 3.5; exclusivity: 3.5
Day 5: Holiday Party Crash - News Corp (A Very Murdoch Xmas!)
While you were at your classy upper east side / swanky downtown / anywhere but Times Square holiday celebrations, I was hanging out with 8,000 News Corp proletariat. And the Hilton security guard who snuck me in, then wrote me an email saying he was glad he met me, but that he realized he was "just one of your pawns in your pursuit for gossip." Busted. I would feel guilty, except that he was the only thing standing between me getting in, nabbing some quotes, and then collapsing into bed after going to EIGHTEEN PARTIES IN ONE WEEK, and well, I really freaking wanted to sleep.
RUPERT MURDOCH WISHES YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS HAPPY HOLIDAY
There's a general rule of thumb that work events are always held on Monday through Thursday nights, because Fridays are reserved for real friends or for family. Who could flout that rule? Rupert Murdoch, of course, who held the annual holiday party — and it's called a holiday party, not a Christmas party, Bill O'Reilly — for all New York News Corporation employees Friday night. It's a huge event, for everyone from HarperCollins editors to Fox 5 local-news guys to 20th Century Fox PR people to Fox News ideologues to all their associated sales teams and managerial staffs and all that. Naturally, Julia Allison was there, and after the jump she takes you on a tour of Rupert's world, with stops for frat-party booze and trans-fatty food. Yum!
We're not sure what we were expecting at News Corp.'s annual extravaganza for 6,000 of Rupert Murdoch's favorite employees (plus their plus ones), but it wasn't the bizarre menagerie that greeted us at the Sixth Avenue Hilton Friday night. The invite — not that we actually had one of our own — promised "a trip around the News Corp world without leaving New York City." How, uh, clever? We flirted our way past a security guard, arriving at the almost three floors taken over by what we can only say was the randomest party we've ever been to. Each ballroom was decorated to represent a continent, and each attempt was almost entirely unsuccessful. There was Australia, represented by a lifeguard. There was Asia, with video games. There was Africa — wait. Where was Africa? "It's an American, Republican, Fox view of the world," laughed one guest. "No Africa." Far away from hoi polloi, from a VIP section in the balcony above "Europe," Murdoch gave a brief toast, shook a few hands, then made himself scarce. Loaded onto a 50-foot buffet was the nastiest food we'd ever seen — mini hot dogs, fried chicken, meatloaf-burger patties reminiscent of White Castle, and something identified as Sheppard's pie. (As in, Shep Smith? Was that the joke? Ugh.) The bars — and there were many — held your typical frat-party liquor: Bacardi, Jack, something with orange juice. "In our defense," said one News Corper, "it's really hard to plan a party for between six and twelve thousand people." We saw his point. "And if you think about it, it's a pretty economical way to thank people." Ah, yes, thank the plebes! And, to be sure, although we searched for hours, we saw absolutely no boldfaced names — no on-air talent, no major execs. (Later, though, we were informed that HarperCollins chief Jane Freidman was there, freshly de-Regan'd and merrily singing karaoke with her colleagues.) When the clock struck eleven, the party was instantly disassembled. Merry Christmas, from Rupe.
Verdict: Food: 3 (if you like trans fats; if not: .5); drink: 2; venue: 2; debauchery: 3; exclusivity: 2.
Day 4: Holiday Party Crash - Gawker and NY Observer. Try to Contain Your Schadenfreude.
ughghhhhhhh ... no moreeeee media partiessss
***LAST NIGHT'S REVIEWS***
Will post the reviews for last night's events when I get around to writing them, sometime between now and 10 am. In the meantime, enjoy a little good-natured three am bitching. And no, I haven't had anything to drink. (Hmm ... maybe that's the problem??)
3 Reasons I Do Not Like Attempting to Interview Other Reporters at their Holiday Parties:
No one ever wants to be quoted, which I find generally inexplicable. It's a freaking holiday party, not an expose on your recent divorce. WTF? fuckers.
Those who do talk, proceed to narrate for what feels like hours, only to conclude with "it was a great party." AWESOME. YOU REALLY THINK I'M GOING TO USE THAT? IT'S A RETARDED QUOTE AND YOU KNOW IT. again, fuckers.
The final few - those who don't want to be quoted, but still want to talk - just try to interview you back. I almost always fall for this trick, but I'm wising up. See expletive in previous two points.
At least Nick Denton consented to a slutty-santa photo at his gawk-festivus last night. Note my adoring gaze. In general, those are reserved for gift-wielding boyfriends or people who defend my right to be an (amusing) publicity whore. Denton is most definitely the latter. Awww.
Forbes Life President Bob Forbes, Publisher Jack Laschever, Boss Editor Chris Buckley and ... me
EGGNOG WITH FORBES LIFE
The Forbes company likes its parties on home turf. Whether that turf is the yacht, the townhouse, or their venerated Forbes building, if they’re hosting a party, it’s probably going to be at one of them. So when Forbes Life, the “lifestyle supplement” with glossy ad pages headed by the cheerfully sardonic editor in chief Christopher Buckley, invited us to crash its holiday celebration last night, we weren’t surprised to read “60 5th Avenue.” And when we walked up to the offices, it seemed incredibly appropriate that, instead of a Christmas tree, there sat a shiny white Rolls Royce with an enormous red bow. Merry Christmas from the Capitalist Tools!
Inside the garland-and-tinsel-laden lobby, the 12 person editorial staff mingled with the business side, and both chatted up the advertisers. (Unlike most magazine’s holiday parties, they were warmly – shrewdly? – invited to join in the festivities.) A four-person brass band played from the stairwell, and the two front rooms held upwards of 60 guests, as well as a silent auction to benefit the Salvation Army, an ornament engraver, and a magician who did tricks with a dollar bill (of course). The building’s revolving doors were shut off to hold a makeshift bar, and the red-tablecloth’d buffet looked like a slightly bigger version of your family holiday party – carrot & celery sticks with dip, crackers & cheese, a ham, and a big tray of red and green sprinkled Xmas cookies. We almost missed the sushi station with fresh sashimi and California rolls because we were too busy staring at the eggnog. It was the first party we’ve been to that actually had eggnog, although it didn’t look like anyone’s actually sampled it. “I’m told it sits like a bowling ball in your stomach,” confided associate editor Taylor Antrim. “This is my third Xmas party and I’ve never had it.” Buckley thinks he knows why. “We put polonium 210 in there.”
Sartorially displaying holiday cheer with his bright red Christmas-tree tie, Buckley admitted that he’s been doing this whole “Forbes holiday party thing” for a while, and, he told us, “If I die tomorrow I want it on my tombstone: ‘I made it through 16 consecutive Forbes Christmas parties in the temple of capitalism.’ That’s enough for a posthumous bonus!” “This party is very calm,” said one staffer who we’ll refrain from naming, “The one that’s really good is facilities – security, kitchen, IT. It was on Monday and apparently it was WILD.” “You really can’t compare it to other outside parties,” explained senior editor Thomas Jackson. “You have to compare it to other FORBES parties. This is like a house party – it’s a known quantity.”
Just then we spotted Bob Forbes, President of Forbes Life (and brother of Steve and Tim and Chris). So, we asked him, why choose to have the party here instead of … “going to a really cool hotel in Singapore?” the eavesdropping Buckley interjected. “No,” we insisted, turning back to Forbes. “Instead of, you know, another space? Here. In New York.” “Well,” said Forbes, pretending to muse philosophically, “the reason is very simple: Scottish thrift.” Ah. That explains the Rolls! We snagged a gift bag on our way out – Amstel light glass, a Thank You for Smoking DVD, and Armani code cologne. Sometimes we love capitalism.
Verdict: Food: 2.5; Drink: 3 (If you like eggnog: 3.5); Venue: 2.5 (If you don’t work there: 3.5); Debauchery: 1.5; Exclusivity: 2
Re: the Marc Jacobs fete, really, nothing I write can possibly describe it. I spotted Mel Rose from America’s Top Model, who gushed, “this party is insane - a picture is worth a million words.” If she fucked up that axiom on purpose, she had every justification. In this case, I think she's right. Witness the below photo:
Lita Austin and Jasmine Taylor, friends of Jacobs' and fundraisers for an AIDS charity
Day 2: Holiday Party Crash - Allure and The New Yorker, Gravitas-Heavy Edition. Okay, Except Allure.
For Day 2 of my Holiday Party Crash, I actually smuggled myself into The New Yorker bash over in Soho. Didn't even bother to try to get in at Allure at Double Seven; I'd rather spy on Gladwell and harass the poor kid who has to sort through 5,000 reader cartoon captions every week (hi Zach!)
One part I left out (for their sake) - asking two inebriated New Yorker cartoonists, "Are you comedians who can draw or artists who can make jokes?" Their answer? “We’re losers who can drink,” one cackled, and both dissolved into giggles. Uh ... you said it, not me.
SUSHI WITH THE NEW YORKER, PAD THAI WITH ALLURE
Another December night in New York, another round of company Christmas parties. Last night our roving party reporter Julia Allison hit The New Yorker's annual fête — where she was allowed inside! — and Allure's far more subdued affair. After the jump, her reviews, complete with our four-category, scale-of-1-to-5, vaguely Zagatian party ratings. (Spoiler: The New Yorker won.)
• The New Yorker threw its annual holiday party at Lure Fishbar in Soho last night, and the venue was the perfect size — just crowded enough to feel celebratory but not crowded enough to suffocate. Tweed-attired literati mixed with young-Turk assistants, long-serving editors, perky ad reps, and loopy cartoonists, and everyone was in extremely high spirits, perhaps buoyed by the more-than-liberal flow of alcohol (or perhaps by the two separate oyster and sushi bars). "It's the only event the entire year where advertising and editorial get together in the same room," one guy noted. "We don't have much to say to each other." We spotted Malcolm Gladwell and his hair from across the room; he was dressed in a black suit and gray striped tie and clutching a glass of water. How did this party compare to his other holiday events? "I have nothing intelligent to say," he insisted. We were skeptical. "I haven't had anything to drink yet." Two convivial cartoonists who clearly had sat howling with laughter at a banquette. What would a cartoon of the party look like? "Beetle Bailey lying down, with Xs over his eyes and champagne bubbles from his lips," said one. Both dissolved into giggles. Anything noteworthy about the party? "I tried the clam chowder, but I noticed that as I ate the final clam, it turned to Wrigley's Spearmint gum," said the other. Talking to New Yorker cartoonists is like reading a New Yorker cartoon: It can be difficult to figure out what the joke is. One lanky guest said he'd just confessed his admiration to Lillian Ross. "She said, 'Do you? Because the last person who said that spilled an entire beer on me.'" The party's scheduled 10 p.m. end came and went, and still they partied on. "It's not like the dinner dances they used to have at the Plaza," sniffed a 30-year vet. "But it's pretty good." Verdict: Food: 5 (if you like raw fish; if not: 1); drink: 5; venue: 3.5; debauchery: 4.5 (for nerdy types; for anyone else: 2); exclusivity: 4
• Over in the meatpacking district, beauty-tip loving Allure employees mixed at Double Seven, the same club that will host brother pub GQ later this week. (Did Condé — uncharacteristically — go for a volume discount?) With under a hundred guests — "80 percent women, 18 percent gays, and 2 percent me," said one apparently straight male guest — and strictly limited to employees, very little rambunctious behavior ensued. Indeed, some groused that it wasn't enough of a "scene." "It was a typical meatpacking-district, loungy bar, very dark," one Nastie said. "It wasn't crowded, and there were no celebrities — really just people who work at the mag." Editor-in-chief Linda Wells, perfectly blonde and perfectly dressed, held court while her staffers, apparently "not drinking much," munched on pad Thai and beef salad served in boxes with chopsticks. "It was very sedate, very mellow," said a guest. "Although it was a schmooze fest." Aren't they all? Verdict: Food: 3.5; drink: 3; venue: 2.5; debauchery: 1; exclusivity: 3.5
I like parties.
I like the holidays.
I like New York magazine.
Therefore, I would like to write about holiday parties for New York magazine.
What I failed to realize was:
I would not be invited to (most of) these parties.
Oh well. It wasn't cold, so skulking outside for quotes produced only mild discomfort. At Hearst people were nice enough to talk, although "How was the party?" invariably ensured a host of really bland platitudes like "it was fun!" Great. You had a good time. I'm really happy for you. Now tell me who you schtupped in the bathroom after one too many white cranberry cosmos.
Vogue, on the other hand, was like The Cult of the Cigarette Smoking Bitches. I've been treated pretty rudely before, but never, ever, have I seen anything like that. (And I wasn't even wearing my Slutty Santa suit!) They didn't deign to acknowledge my presence with EYE CONTACT, let alone and "I'm so sorry" or "Anna Wintour will skin my alive like her minks if I talk to you." Even for the type of women bitches drawn to Vogue, that level of insolence takes serious practice.
In other news, the PETA people were really nice. Sigh.
Jagillionaires in Suits. Not Dancing. Or Smiling. It's Dealmaker, the Mag!
That would be me (er, my ... rear) next to the Dealmaker sign, in this shot by Huffington Post scribe Ms. Sklar. Photojournalism at its camera-phone best! In any case, she chronicles the new magazine launch's party much better than I could, reciting actual boldfaced names and whatnot.
The whole thing just confused me - dour men in suits as far as the eye could see, and then a random - and I really have to emphasize RANDOM - Chinese dragon-person-thing moving throughout the room smashing a giant gong. WTF? Is this what makes i-bankers feel virile?
I was there because my two girl friends (see photo below) knew the founder, Magnus Greaves, which is pretty much the most awesome name since Lockhart Steele, and I think they should have a wrestling match. Although if you've ever met either of them, it's staggeringly obvious who would win (Hint: not Lock).
Anyway, a year or so ago Magnus started a little magazine called Trader Monthly, which apparently did quite well, because now he's launching Dealmaker. Both of these mags are for people just like you! And by "people just like you" I mean people not at all like you in any way, but instead men who earn jillions of dollars in jobs that don't involve actually making or building anything and wonder whether they should, in fact, keep their case of 82 Margaux or just chug it already.
I just look at the mag to salivate at the private jet ads and think "if they can get PJs, maybe one day I'll have health insurance!"
Fulfilling my Media Whore Quota for the WeekMonth Year?? ... Nah. Just the Month.
Julia and Brooke
We were going for "Smoldering Temptress." Brooke won. By a LOT.
10 Things I Accomplished Last Evening at the Spy Magazine Retrospective Something-or-Other-Book-Party-Thing:
Put on real clothing (not pajamas) and actually left apartment (getting cookies at bodega notwithstanding).
Discussed the pain-in-the-ass-ed-ness of buying aforementioned "real clothing" with one now-4-Times-Square-worker Jess Coen. Mentioned for the fifth time how, when drunk on Halloween, I begged her to be my friend. She told me to drop it, already. Crap.
Admired the headband (??) tribal gear (??) of Mediabistro's Dylan Stableford. No banal baseball caps for this guy, unlike #9!
Eschewing normal boundaries of "personal space," hugged Gawker associate editor Doree Sharfir to thank her for the SUPER-sweet posts last week. Awesome!! Maybe we can hang out sometime and braid each other's hair!!!
Speaking of hair, gazed at Graydon Carter's from afar. Wondered if he's just adverse to cutting it or maybe channeling an older-whiter-version of Malcolm Gladwell? Hmm. Cute wife, though.
Stood within one foot of Anna Wintour, clad in boots and fur-ish coat-ish. Felt a little shaky. Hope she didn't notice I was wearing Bebe.
Babbled to Kurt Andersen about how I "circle the words I don't know" in his NY magazine columns. Him: "Well, at least you read them." Uh, hel-lo, Kurt, I didn't say anything about reading them!
Ran after Candace Bushnell to thank her half-sarcastically for getting me into this stinking profession. Me: "I can't seem to get any respect!" Her: "No attractive woman gets respect until the age of 35." And I'm sure wearing condom costumes for Halloween doesn't help either.
Stood by as Ron Perelman, clad casually in a non-descript orange baseball cap, ran some game on my rather buxom blonde wingwoman Brooke Parkhurst (see photo above) ... Him: "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Brooke: "Um ... no?" Him: "I'm Ron Perelman." Awww, Ron!! C'mon. REALLY?? I mean, he could have said "Wow, you look like a younger version of all four of my ex-wives!! Want to date me? And by the way, I'm Really Really Rich!" But he didn't. In any case, being rather incorrigibly obnoxious, I stood between Ron and his chosen one, and egged on by my one cocktail, proceeded to TOTALLY DOMINATE THE CONVERSATION. Ron immediately asked if I was Jewish. I took that to mean he liked me. 1/2 counts, right? Score one for the Tribe!
Cosmopolitan's 50 Hottest Bachelors Party: Words are Really Superfluous.
Me, Mr. Illinois (rrrrrr), and the gorgeous Miss Brooke Parkhurst
Best. Tuesday. Night. Ever.
There is nothing, NOTHING, better than screaming "TAKE OFF YOUR SHIRT!!!!!!" to hotties being paraded out like a herd of six-pack-possessing cattle. De-licious. (Man-licious?)
Okay, Okay, I take that back. It could have been better if they actually DID take off their shirts. And their pants. And started singing, Pussycat Dolls style: "Doncha wish your boyfriend was. Hot. Like. Meeee. Doncha? Doncha?" and wiggling their little boxer-brief clad butts.
MMMM. It's enough to make a girl want to incorporate man-candy into every party. Or put a "man" prefix before every salacious adjective/noun. Man-sational!! Man-Pleasant! ... er ... right. This is why Cosmo would never hire me as an editor. But that's okay - as long as they keep inviting me to their Man-tastic parties!!!
Thanks to Brooke for being my obliging wingwoman throughout the evening, and not once laughing at me when I asked the boys in faux-reporter style, "But how does it FEEL to be a piece of meat?" and nodding seriously when they explained (usually with a thick accent) that aw, shucks, it feels real nice, and they sure are glad to be here! Right, right, whatever. Let's see that stomach again!
Kate White, you are my hero.
Although I grew up with a locked TV, I was VERY OCCASIONALLY allowed to watch Beverly Hills: 90210. My father's favorite game was purposely "forgetting" the zip code (ostensibly to demonstrate his distain over the show's sheer retardation). "Why do you want to watch 90418 anyway?" "When will Donna Martin graduate from that 95326 show?" At 13, I considered this highly insulting. HOW COULD HE NOT REMEMBER SUCH AN IMPORTANT FIVE DIGIT NUMBER?? DAD!!!!
And now, a decade plus later, here comes Harvard, so secure that their zip code is JUST AS MEMORABLE as Beverly Hills' that they've named a whole magazine after it. But I'm taking a stand. I refuse to make any attempt at remembering it. I won't even look at the last three digits.
I will, however, crash their launch party. And read the actual magazine, which, despite its understandable* focus on a particular university within that zip code, is pretty damn readable.
*I mean, really, are there any interesting or successful people who didn't go to Harvard? After reading 04865, I think we can safely say "no." And by "we" I mean the editors of 27639. Who graduated from Harvard. Obviously.
Pictures of me at the party posing with people who definitely didn't go to Harvard, after the jump. Okay, fine. One guy in the pictures went to Harvard, but it doesn't count, because now he writes theatre reviews. And c'mon, how Harvard is THAT? That's like, so totally Yale Drama. Please.
The (Ex) Boyfriend says I look like I'm "on a large dosage of crack." This is obviously not true, because A) I would be a lot skinnier and B) see A.
For the record, I was just showing the studly videographer how I pose for photos. Usually I don't move my head around so frenetically, but you know, I don't get out much and I DID have one (imported) beer and ... well, whatever.
The point is, I was NOT dancing to "Hip Hop Hooray," no matter what slick editing those gawkerettes do. In fact, during the entirety of the time which I was at the More-Hipster-Than-Thou party, I didn't see ANYONE dancing. Just admiring each other's messenger bags.
And trying not to care that Al Gore was standing next to them. Shockingly, and perhaps because they were so cool (too cool to push & shove, even for an environmentalist), there weren't many people crowding around the should-be sagamore, so I had no problem waltzing right up and introducing myself as a "New York dating columnist." Like he gave a damn.
Anyway, because I didn't anticipate actually having a conversation with The Gorester, and because the last memory in my head was of him and his bizarre VMA appearance, the only thing I could think of to say was:
"Mr. Gore, I just wanted to say that I really appreciate you bringing Sexy Back. We missed that around here."
He laughed uproariously ... then he said I had a "nice outfit" as we posed for a photo together.
If by "nice outfit" he meant "your boobs are falling out of your shirt," he was accurate.
The inviters' names looked familiar ("Mike and Chris and Ryan and Meg"), in the way that common names tend to. I felt like I SHOULD know them. But ... umm ... I didn't. Did they go to college with me? Were they random readers of my column? Guys I'd slept with? WHO WERE THIS PEOPLE AND WHY DO THEY WANT ME TO COME TO THEIR CLAMBAKE????
In the future, I think Evites should include photographs of the inviters and short bios so the innocent invitees won't have to waste their time typing names into Facebook and muttering, "I really hope I haven't had sex with this person so I don't have to buy a gift."
PS. What Bush would say on this subject: "Listen, I'm the Inviter. I Invite People. You're the Invitee. You Get Invited. He hehe he."
People love to say that New York is a "small town" - usually after finding out they slept with their boss's brother (oops!). But it's not REALLY a small town. It's an enormous town - they just had bad luck. The New York that sex columnists inhabit, on the other hand, really IS a small town, er, community. Damn. That analogy almost worked ...
Anyway, my point is that we all know each other - or at least know OF each other. So when Village Voice sex goddess Rachel Kramer Bussel invited me to a special themed evening called "True Sex Confessions" with half of the sexperts in this city, I had to go.
To be honest, I really wasn't in the mood (I'm rarely in the mood for anything that involves putting on "real" clothing and leaving my cocoon-like nest, er, apartment), but that certainly changed when I walked in to the stereotypical LES hipster bar to find it crammed with people listening to topics that would make your mother faint - (hell, I was shocked!): fisting, lost tampons, sex poop. Please don't ask me to explain the last one. I can't bear to think about it.
The one person I was especially excited to *finally* meet was Jessica Cutler - aka "The Washingtonienne." Ever since she stole my DC Hussy Thunder I've been bitterly bitchy about it, for several reasons, which I'll go into in another blog entry. Suffice to say, she has a much more defined jawline than I, and that's about all it takes for me to fly into a jealous rage. Anyway, a photo of us (along with uber-blogger Nichelle) is below. Note Jessica's chiseled half-Asian features, which I pine for. Damn her!