Gawker correspondent and mascot Andrew Krucoff IM'd us yesterday afternoon with a plea. This in itself was not unusual — The Krook's a little needy, we've come to realize — but we were surprised to learn he had an inspired idea: What about a Party Crash of Chuck Klosterman's book party?
It promised to be a night full of shaggy-haired music kids, horn-rimmed writer folks, and, no doubt, endless alcoholic debauchery, so it seemed great fit. Capital idea, we told Krucoff. Now you go do it. He did: AK rounded up his friend Rina Raphael, rendezvoused with fab photog Jennifer Snow, carefully sheathed his rapier wit, and plunged into the Kostermanian wilds.
After the jump, our trio explains who Klosterman is gazing at above, feigns dismay at getting this assignment, and observes rock writers, aspiring rock writers, innumerable unremovable shoulder bags, and even a drunken, singing blogger. (Which in this case, surprisingly enough, was not us.)
When Gawker asked us to dip our webbed feet into Chuck Klosterman's latest book party last night, we remarked that we'd far prefer watching a grossly drunk Fran Drescher sing Pitchfork's techno reviews while genetically enhanced geese pecked at our mustard-smeared nipples. But we deigned to suffer this particular rock-critic-bourgeois horseshow after we learned it was to be held at the ever-hip and happening Gibson Guitar Showroom (was Borders' Easy Listening section already booked?) on West 54th Street, a venue that sounded just slightly more pathetic, "ironic," and desperate than, well, the Klosterman book and ego empire.
Having just finished Killing Yourself To Live, Klosterman's latest homoerotic, Hornby-esue adventure laced in tattered "rock-memoir" clothing, we were all too ready to find One-Buck Chuck playing host by entertaining — in the third person — the Darkroom's leftovers with elaborate theories on why America's Next Top Model Season II solely explains our country's fascinating dependency on fruit-flavored bottled water. Confronted with an open bar, a room full of pick-up-and-play instruments, and Chuck's ability to pretend he's cooler than a shroom-induced epileptic seizure at a Metallica show, we were not disappointed.
Take note of the picture above, featuring Chuck gazing (or is it gayzing?) at Rex Sorgatz (Filmoculous, MNspeak, Midwest die-hard) who is the "nemesis" in Klosterman's books and hopefully in real life. From there it only got worse, with colorful thin-rail vodka enthusiasts, fawning Sparks-powered Spin interns, and Brooklyn's finest music bloggers submitting their traffic-stat-filled applications for a chance to suck The Klost and ride the Chuck-wagon.
This represents a playful device called foreshadowing. Chuck's books and liquor drinks were strewn all over the place, much like his apartment, we imagine.
Spin's Dave Itzkoff and lady stare into the abyss of their lives. Later they mysteriously disappeared into the closet/bathroom (?) for 5 to 7 minutes. Seriously, we timed them.
Chuck's editor, Brant Rumble, remarks to freelance writer Erin Schulte, "Yeah, we just hope Mel Gibson fights for directing rights, as an Aramaic adaptation will be the far less annoying than, say, understandable English."
Jim Cooke, creative director of the Black Table, proves that when you've been hitting the cheese platter and feeling a little frisky in the phallic-filled tundra of the Gibson Guitar Room, you're bound to grab some flabby-hard genitalia in honor of Michael Jackson's innocence.
Literary agent Daniel Greenberg has the good sense to greenlight books from Chuck Klosterman and Neal Pollack, among others, and also to reject crappy ideas like a book series on milestone ages. (Yes, he really did.)
BREAKING: we interrupt this party report to alert you of a ground attack by the Dudes Who Never Take Their Bags Off. These are just some of the revealing photos that demonstrate the seriousness of the situation.
Stay tuned to Gawker for updates. Now back to your regularly scheduled Party Crash.
This was a warm moment. Robin Wasserman, author of the Seven Deadly Sins book series, wins a guitar. Yes, a goddamn guitar. With no actual playing ability, she plans to take it to parties and use as a conversation piece. I suggested she donate it to a New York City public school. If you know her, feel free to lay the guilt.
Elizabeth Spiers of Mediabistro looks on as all hell is about to break loose. This is the moment when the evening degenerated into a drunken high-school basement party.
Rachel Sklar of Mediabistro's FishbowlNY fronts "The Spinotaurs" (Chuck: "you know, like minotaurs!") and belts out AC/DC classics. They also performed songs by the Kinks, Blue Oyster Cult (special appearance by Chuck on lead vocals), and a Led Zeppelin medley that could have been a VH1 Classic promo featuring four kids in a garage dated 1981.
This is Jon Dolan, Spin writer, who I believe someone said is "admirably legally blind" and was no doubt the best of the musicians.
And no high school basement party would be complete without a little hooking up and making out. For example:
That last one is Melissa Maerz of Spin in a gentle rub and hug.
Like being on stage, guitars make people look cool. Wait, no they don't.
And nothing could make this dork look cool.
BREAKING: We end this party report with good news that the Dudes Who Never Take Their Bags Off have been defeated.