John McCain is a huge fan of Ralph Lauren's Rugby line.
Last night Time magazine hosted its Time 100 party, honoring 100 of "the people who shape our world." This year, the list included Condi Rice, P. Diddy, and some dude calling himself "Rain" — all of whom gathered at Jazz at Lincoln Center for freely flowing cocktails, a decent meal, and the chance to see Katie Couric rock out to Paul Simon. Always game for some Graceland and a chance to drink way too much in the presence of smart, accomplished folks, we put on our black tie best and headed uptown with Gawker staff shutterwhore Nikola Tamindzic. After the jump, a moment with Martha, a glimpse of J.Lo, and a lesson in making Stephen Colbert's wife feel bad.
Remember when J.Lo's ass was a national treasure? Now it's but a
memory, swaddled in a Moroccan bedspread.
Arriving at Jazz at Lincoln Center (which is neither jazzy nor located at the Lincoln Center) is a demoralizing experience. Our cab pulls up to the red carpet right behind a stretch limo, out of which climbs uni-monikered honoree Rain, the South Korean "king of pop," minus the molestation. As he climbs out, the crowd goes batshit. When we scurry down the carpet a few minutes later, everyone gives us a "Who the fuck?" look. We'd never expect to be recognized, but to be scorned because we are not an Asian pop star makes us feel particularly uncomfortable.
But this is just one of three red-carpet hells. The second, leading to the elevators, brings unconvincingly enthusiastic reporters interviewing a wee John Leguiziamo, only to drop him as soon as Will Smith arrives. The third and final carpet, upstairs at the actual event, is clogged with Isabella Rosselini, a PDA-happy Lauren Bush and David Lauren, and Jerry Bruckheimer, who gives us a creepy, knowing smile for reasons we'd rather not to think about.
It's halfway down this last red runway that Nikola is grabbed by a desperate, sweaty man in a headset: "We have a man walking the carpet with a camera! We have a breach! A breach!" Apparently it doesn't matter that we were actually invited for once — but whatever, this is our first "breach," and it's exciting. A mini-scuffle ensues until angelic Rubenstein publicist Meredith Huddleston intervenes and lets Nikola pass.
Wynton: "Tall white dude with the hair's taking another photo." Will: "I know, man, don't look at him. Motherfucker's scary..."
David Lauren and Lauren Bush stopped sucking face just long enough for the shutter to go off.
Page Six editor Richard Johnson and his new bride, Sessa von Richthofen. Isn't it amazing what a little scandal can do for your skin? She's glowing!
Martha Stewart would prefer that you line your junk drawers with this pretty floral wallpaper she brought in from England.
Due to reasons involving some fuckwit floating in an aquarium, traffic was terrible and we're pretty late to cocktails. The place is packed, filled with the always awkward combination of journalists, bloggers, and A-listers. We quickly down our first glass of wine, grab our second, and head over to Martha Stewart and start babbling. If she were asked to host The View for a week, would she? Her eyes light up with frightening enthusiasm. "Oh yeah!" she responds. Well, that's no fun. What if she had to assume the role of one of the View women when doing so — who would she be? "I'd be MEEE!" she giggles (note: Martha Stewart should not be allowed to giggle). Really? Not, say, Star Jones for a day? Stewart's head draws back in restrained, waspy horror. "Oh no!"
Daily News gossip hottie Ben Widdicombe looks for fresh, young meat.
Bill O'Reilly and Keith Kelly conspire to loofah the guy on the left.
You'd think Ana Marie Cox would be a little more happy to smile for Gawker Media. You'd think, but you'd be incredibly wrong.
Viacom head Tom Freston really disagreed with George Lucas' unfair depiction of Jar Jar Binks.
Regis may be pushing 85, but that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate his wife's assets. "Would you look at these things? Cost a fortune, but worth it!"
Next we hit up Regis Philbin, who seems rather perky for someone with a colostomy bag. We want to know how it was having Tom Cruise on his show last week. Did he seem, you know, OK? In the head? Reg dodges the mental health issue: "He was like this force! Just great. He visited with the audience during commerical breaks." Impressive, seeing as he must be so tired from jumping on cars and having fake babies. Regis counters, "He was on top of the world!" As if we might not believe him, Regis gives a little fist-pump for emphasis. Fist-pumps don't lie, after all.
Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, his wife Veronica, David Lauren, and Lauren Bush make awkward, stunted small talk.
For $50K, Patrick McMullen can offer Sessa von Richthofen Level Two photo protection.
Would you believe that Dr. Andrew Weil's beard has actually been trimmed?
Stephen Colbert has no idea who this dude is. But look, a camera!
Cocktails are ending soon, and we're slowly being corralled into the dining room. We descend upon Stephen Colbert and introduce ourselves, noting that we did a poll on his speech at the White House Correspondents dinner and that our esteemed readers think he's a great American patriot. He laughs, but has no idea that the Times had been following the issue. In fact, he doesn't read any of his press: "I say, show me in two weeks!" Meanwhile, his wife informs us that she read a Gawker Stalker sighting of her husband seen with a blonde. But Missus Colbert, while lovely, is clearly not blonde. We feel very badly about this obvious betrayal and hope they see a counselor.
When they get home, Jerry Bruckheimer will force his wife Linda to wear her "Pirate Lass" costume while riding his Black Pearl.
We've no clue what Sharyn Foo of the Raveonettes was doing at this thing, but she'd probably say the same about us.
Caltech astronomer and honoree Mike Brown discovered UB313, the first TNO that is larger than Pluto. Don't fucking pretend to understand a word of that.
Will Smith and Vivienne Tam know nothing about one another, nor do they care to learn.
Isabella Rosselini succeeds in making us feel very small and common.
We head into the dining room and take our seats. We're sitting between Ad Age editor Scott Donaton and sports agent Patrick Quinn, who's there with his star client, Olympic speed skater Joey Cheek. We're sitting across the table from Cheek, so we can't see his thighs — but we'll spend the entire dinner fantasizing about them. Publicist Liz Rosenberg is also at our table, but she doesn't show up until 10 PM — an hour and a half late, and not in any sort of formal wear. When you're Madonna's flack, you can apparently get away with such things.
WWD reporter Jeff Bercovici makes his "O face." Seriously.
After spilling wine on Ana Marie Cox, FishbowlNY's Dylan Stableford spends the rest of the night drinking alone.
The dining room feels empty without the Dixie Chicks.
Ah, that's better.
The dinner itself goes quickly, and there's so much chatting that we barely have time to enjoy our lamb chops or, more importantly, get some solids in our stomachs. This means that we have a hard time remembering lots of specifics. The Dixie Chicks are resurrected to play a set. There are speeches — Jim Kelly sounds particularly southern, Stephen Colbert is predictably funny, and Katie Couric particularly ridiculous. She noted that she was useless without a teleprompter, and we'd concur. Also, we touch Joey Cheek's medal, which makes us feel a little hot and dirty.
Lest you forget who paid for your spring parsnip puree.
Time Warner CEO Dick Parsons refuses to take a look at her modem.
The Observer's Tom Scocca happily demonstrates how one does "reporting." His subject, Arianna Huffington, is happy to speak slowly and enunciate for his benefit.
Al Franken reminds Ralph Nader that this really is all his fault.
These are Time editor Jim Kelly's pet bellhops. They love to have their tummies rubbed.
The night closes with a performance from Paul Simon, who slurs the Newsweek line in Julio — the crowd cheers, and Time editor Jim Kelly's heart soars. After the dinner, everyone returns to the main area for champagne. The night has been incredibly swank — how many people did Time Inc. lay off again? No matter; Joey Cheek takes a minute to say goodbye to us, which affords us ample opportunity for thigh-ogling and inspires several medal-touching fantasies. We eventually cut ourselves off, grab a gift bag containing vodka and some sort of tubed scarf device, and head home. At a quick pizza stop, we meet a newlywed couple and are so drunkenly happy for them that we give them the vodka, insisting, "Time magazine would want you to have it."