By the end of the drunken night, Radar editor Maer Roshan was even trying to pick up women.
Strange things have been known to happen when Gawker attends a Radar party. So when we heard New York's favorite band of Maery pranksters was throwing a bash to celebrate its third issue, we were intrigued. Indeed, even when we were warned that it was just a party for boring ad guys, we couldn't resist the temptation. We gave photoperv Nikola Tamindzic and senior super-special party correspondent Jill Singer pie-proof ponchos, and we sent them off to the festivities at Hiro in the Maritime Hotel — where, as it happened, they bumped into the rest of Team Gawker, who couldn't resist Radar's siren song. After the jump, it's Radar's world — at least for a night.
It's 9:00 in the underground lair that is Hiro, and we're looking around the huge, Asian-themed space for things that are "scary." The party was billed as the "Scary Ball," but the theme has been executed in a way that makes us wonder if one of the teams from The Apprentice was charged with event planning. There are bowls of candy-corn pumpkins strewn haphazardly around the room, and they've hired a hairdresser to style a lone waitress's tresses into a petrified updo that mimics Angelina's on the most recent Radar cover. Beyond that, there's nothing to fear but the number of men in suits. There's also an illuminated Radar logo dancing on the wall above the revelers and its letters look sort of distorted — maybe Radar is trying to scare us with its bad taste in fonts? We count only one costume: A guy in a cheetah-print coat, who's clearly the lovechild of Siegfried and Bobby Trendy. We say a silent prayer of thanks that we left our Harriet Miers limited-edition SCOTUS robes and false eyelashes at home, and we make a beeline for the open bar.
After this picture was taken, Chris Tennant threw a votive in a fit of rage. The hair went up in flames; there were no survivors.
"Animal prints are so in for fall!" Radar's fashion editor coos.
We blow our wad early: Five minutes in, we're intercepted by Radar editor and Gawker whipping-boy Maer Roshan, who looks suspicious and invites us outside for a cigarette. We've been told by the Gawker overlords that we should cover this party as we would any other party crash — Maer has attended parties at Denton's house since the infamous Piegate; detente has been achieved. But as we're ushered down the long, dark hallway, exchanging awkward pleasantries with an ad guy who snarks, "There aren't any pies inside, are there?" and Radar publicist Drew Kerr, who looks like he's the security detail, we start to feel queasy. It's a bit too Silvio and Adriana for our taste.
Radar flack Drew Kerr runs a Gawker fansite called Soleil Moon-Frye. He is not angry.
Senior editor Chris Tennant daydreams about the pony Maer promised him for Christmas.
Outside, we're introduced to editor-at-large Mim Udovitch, who makes a quick getaway. Maer looks increasingly rattled by the gigantic reporter's notebook we carry around to, well, rattle people like Maer. Nick Denton saunters up with L.A. blogger Mickey Kaus, who, in his long trench coat, looks like he desperately wants to be somebody's Deep Throat. The men start talking about Michael Kinsley and our eyes glaze over. Once they start serious discussion of whether Stuff magazine was "darker" under Greg Gutfeld's reign, we politely excuse ourselves. Also, we feel a bit weird reporting with Denton standing right there. It's a little like how we imagine it would feel to have our parents watching us have sex — if Denton had any idea who we were.
His hair is real. His love is not.
With his love of karaoke and his knack for triple-fisting, we can see why NYT metro hottie Nick Confessore is a hit at these kinds of parties.
Krucoff: "Si? Chuck? Let's hug it out."
We don't know at what point the party turns into a blogger clusterfuck, but we're pretty sure it's around the time Andrew Krucoff shows up, minus his trusty box of "Save Krucoff" buttons. At this point, there are so many Gawker editors and hangers-on crammed into one space, we're sort of afraid they'll spontaneously reproduce and we'll wake up tomorrow morning to things like Shnorrer, the blog for Jews in search of sample sales, or Bukkakfab, a niche blog devoted to gay men who enjoy Japanese noodle preparation and deviant sexual practices. We're also a little panicked: Is no one manning the Magician?
Krucoff: "No shit, I could do that and still not get fired from the Times?" Warren St. John: "I know, right?!"
After the party, Defamer editor Mark Lisanti, in from L.A., and Jesse Oxfeld went in for a magnificently relaxing 2-for-1 hot shave at Nickel, the spa for men.
We confess to Gawker editor Jesse Oxfeld that we always thought Gawker guest editor Alex Pareene was Indian.
"That's OK," he says. "Somebody just told me they thought I was black."
Greg Gutfeld really likes it when you lick his ear just like... oh... oh yeah, right there.
It's 9:55 and the free vodka stops at 10, so we hightail it back to the bar, where we're introduced to HuffPo star Greg Gutfeld and LowCulture's Jean-Paul Tremblay. Ladies and gentleman, their conversation in one act:
Gutfeld: I have crabs.
Tremblay: I'm like a helicopter hovering over Fallujah.
Gutfeld: You can't be a racist if you hate everybody.
Tremblay: I'm Scarlett Johannson!
Somehow we missed the freestyle humping portion of the evening. Nikola, naturally, did not.
Stern and Oxfeld: "Bubeleh!"
There's a brief rumor that Mediabistro cybermistress Laurel Touby and her hubby, BusinessWeek's Sexy Jon Fine, are here, but there are no telltale feathers on the floor, so we move on. We find Radar's online guru, Remy Stern, and congratulate him on his incredibly poor showing in the Mediabistro EIC poll. He leans in: "I was in like second-to-last place and some guy said "Congratulations. You're the runner-up!"
At 10:30, the floor is nearly empty and the party has moved upstairs to Hiro's lounge, so we dutifully follow. At this point the ratio of Gawker representatives to ad guys and Radar folks is at least 900 to 1, so we're left with nothing to do except down shots and stare at our navels. Eventually we stumble over to a booth and sit next to two guys in suits.
"We're not gay," they say by way of introduction. They're finance guys who work for Morgan Stanley and Lehman Brothers, and we can't really figure out why they're here. One of them looks at us and asks, "What's Radar?"
Poor babies. We pat them on the head, and go home.