So this photo may show Ian Spiegelman trying to maul Doug Dechert, but who's the chick on the left? And what the hell is she on?
It's a rare party when Obviously Drunk Guy #1 tells you he'd like nothing more than to "beat the ever-living shit" out of Obviously Drunk Guy #2, and then walk over to ODG#2, standing less than 20 feet away from ODG#1, and have him tell you that yeah, the feeling's mutual, but even though ODG#1 is a "fucking racist, anti-Semite piece of shit," he's not worth getting a felony arrest over — but sometimes God throws you a bone and makes an otherwise tedious exercise in wanton media pomposity that much more tolerable. We were thus blessed last night at Soho House, where the strange trio of Euan Rellie, Jared Paul Stern, and Nick Denton hosted a party for Vanity Fair-bashing memoirist Toby Young's second book, The Sound of No Hands Clapping. After the jump, Gawker poolboy Neel Shah and staff pornographer Nikola Tamindzic report.
Toby Young with fellow import Jasmine Dellal. Yes, this was actually his party. Who knew.
Jared Paul Stern and superagent John Brockman, who would prefer if you called him Mickey Kaus or Matt Drudge.
The usual suspects from print and interweb land were all in attendance, their hobnobbing pirouettes around SoHo House's library room fueled by orange and lime margaritas. Some were dressed well (Jared Paul Stern, a Skull and Bones tie framing an old Polo seersucker suit); some were dressed poorly (man of the hour Toby Young, looking frumpy in beat-up Converses and baggy jeans); a number had really terrible teeth (countless ex-pat Brits).
Remy Stern, amNY's Julia Allison and the BBC's Matt Wells: They know about Remy's super secret project, and now he'll have to kill them.
Daily News gossip Ben Widdicombe and director Whit Stillman commiserate over the pains of spontaneous lactation.
Tom Sykes expresses his desire to hang ten with George Gurley.
Young put on his typical "How courageous of you to show up in support of me!" shtick, telling everyone who asked that he owes all his "success" to his darling (and far more attractive) wife. The British Consulate-General to New York gave a speech that everyone stopped listening to after the fourth bombed joke ("Unfortunately, Graydon Carter couldn't be here tonight...he was too busy removing the gum from his shoe." Ah, that sardonic Anglo wit). Christina Huffington proved mother Arianna to be a far hipper parent than Lloyd Grove—she seemed super excited about her unpaid internship at Vanity Fair, while Grove spawn Julian seemed decidedly less so about his summer gig waiting tables and scooping ice cream in Maryland. (Papa says he's doing this to save up money before heading to Johns Hopkins this fall. C'mon, Lloyd—you should've put that Yalie legacy to better use than that).
Christina Huffington and Julian Grove so totally made out by the pool.
Lloyd Grove and Greg Lindsay compete for the Creepiest Smile award.
Times reporter Warren St. John desperately looks for someone to talk about sports with him.
Ian Spiegelman and Jared Paul Stern: two disgraced peas in a pod!
The open bar soon closed, the herd migrated to the roof to continue the mutual masturabation. Radar's deputy editor Chris Tennant swears on Yusef Jackson's deep pockets that the latest re-incarnation of the mag is here to stay. Two nubile young PR things were overheard making googly eyes at the Times' Warren St. John and Nick Confessore from afar. Anthony Hayden-Guest was seen, well, wasted.
Anthony Haden-Guest killed his liver; Bruno Maddox killed Spy.
FishbowlNY's Dylan Stableford desperately tries to score a mention in Julia Allison's dating column.
Team Random: Opinionista Melissa Lafsky, host Euan Rellie, Eat the Press' Rachel Sklar and Leanne Fremar, sister of Leslie Fremar — who we love for not putting up with Lauren Weisberger's whiney bullshit.
Someone British looking (c'mon, it's obvious), Toby Young, and Out EIC Aaron Hicklin. Jolly bloody good fun or whatever.
DeVry Prom Court: Daily Newser Jo Piazza, Sunshine flack Jesse Derris, Timesman Nick Confessore and Us Weekly's Noelle Hancock.
Lucy Sykes would give you her entire collection of Louboutins if you'd just get that dude out of her face.
Ian Spiegelman proposes a toast to Chris Tennant's boob sweat.
More drinks, hazier notes. After a cluster of people immediately start talking shit about a "friend" of theirs who just departed the circle, we decide it's time to depart. Free booze aside, we knew there was a reason we hated these things. And so we left not the pretty people, but the people who think they're pretty.