Last time we checked, the Gramercy Park area was the epitome of everything that is wrong with Manhattan. This means it's the perfect place for Sex and the City scribe Candace Bushnell and screenwriter Jay McInerney to read steamy sexcapes in front of a gaggle of media folk, socialites, and debutards. We sent GawkSlave Stephanie along with photographer Kate and tipsy videographer Richard Blakeley to make an official record of the blatant debauchery. Waste an additional 20 minutes of your nonproductive day by checking out the Gawker gallery of love, plus Kate's full gallery. After the jump our "I'm only here for the free drinks" trio enter a roomful of a Blue States Lose, with bonus Paula Froelich naughtiness transcription feature.
For starters, I'm almost certain the apocalypse is coming because Richard arrived before I did. Nevertheless, I continue on my mission: stalking debutards and one moderately wealthy media man who pretends to be more important than he really is so he can score a 25-year-old piece of twat. Twenty points or a 25-year-old piece of twat for anyone who can guess that not-so-blind item. Kate hands me a list of 24 people who are supposed to grace the hotel with their presence. Oh! Melissa Berkelhammer, possible contestant on America's Next Debutard? The only other name I recognize is Fabian Basabe. Yeah, it's time for a drink.
Sometime between the first drink and the second, the three of us notice it-boy-of-unknown-identity. A waitress, who looks like she would rather be at home repolishing her perfectly sculpted pedicure, says it's Fabian Basabe. I'm not so sure. I read Socialite Rank and occasionally glance at New York Social Diary for the pretty pictures of rich people in pretty outfits. Seriously, isn't that the only reason people "read" that site, and by read I mean occasionally glance at it for the pretty pictures of rich people in pretty outfits?
Somehow, Kate discovers the identity of It-boy-of-unknown-identity and scribbles it on the back of the folded press release. I glance at it, don't recognize the name, and shove the paper back into my bag. Later I discover it-boy-of-unknown-identity is Kamar De Los Reyes from One Life to Live. This is meaningless to me. The only soap I watch is Passions. Go ahead. Groan. My family and friends are ashamed too. I, however, am not. Meanwhile, Richard is capturing the excitement of women sitting on red couches near tables decorated with red candles near the red carpet floor. Clearly, this party is too hip for its own good. If you don't believe me, check out this counter-intuitive example: Jay McInerney as the most boring, unsexy porn orator on earth.
In typical Gawker fashion, I accost people who you pretend not to give a shit about, but kind of, but sort of have a natural, unhealthy obsession for because, well, you can't explain it and neither can I. First is Lloyd Grove, best known for his short-lived "Ask Lloyd Grove" column. I ask boring questions. Intriguing questions are for grossly overpaid New Yorker editors whose idea of hip involves a yacht and a bottle of San Pellegrino.
Me: Anything you'd like to say about Gawker?
Lloyd: I finally got paid. So I'd like to say thanks for the check, Nick.
Me: I'm so going to use that.
Lloyd: No, don't say that.
Don't edit that out, okay? Thanks! There was also Brooke "Belle in the Big City" Parkhurst, but I have a rule against making punch lines at easy targets. Next is Page Six's Richard Johnson.
Richard: Today, Gawker mentioned my wife Nadine. They called her Nadine "I Used to Fuck Richard" Johnson.
Me: Oh yeah! I read that.
Richard: Well it's true. I did used to...
That was salacious and awkward, kind of like those puberty manuals from high school health classes that discuss how your body is going through a series of changes and it's okay to touch yourself when mommy and daddy aren't around. Paula Froelich mentions having dinner with a sexually liberated, Oscar-nominated movie director. Candace Bushnell mentions being a prude. Jay McInerney mentions sex without reading glasses. Kate mentions it is time for us to leave.
On the way out, I notice Fabian Basabe chatting with Olivia Palermo. I'll skip introducing her as a socialite because I hate introducing people as socialites and because she was No. 24 on last week's power ranking. On a side note, I am getting tired of Tinsley hogging the top spot. And now, the million-dollar question.
Me: What do you think of Gawker?
Fabian: I've been impressed at times, but it needs to stay original.
Readers and debutards, please welcome the latest Gawker creation: "Stay Original" t-shirts. Available never at no store near you.
SPECIAL BONUS: A concerned member of the community was kind enough to pass along the below transcript of Paula Froelich's introductory remarks. No representation is made regarding the accuracy of said remarks or their literary/educational value. Void where prohibited.
I was trying to figure out how to open the festivities. At first I thought, how about doing my love life through the lyrics of 80s hair metal bands or country music songs. You know like David Allen Post 'Now I lay me down to sleep' or Journey's 'I'm going to keep loving you, it's the only thing I want to do, I won't sleep, I won't eat, I just want to keep loving you' that guy totally dump me, by the way, that asshole. Or Poison's 'Every Rose Has It's Thorn' I mean come on, so true. Seriously. Poison knew what they were talking about. I grew up in Ohio [inaudible].
So anyway, because of recent events in my love life, I thought I would start off with some anecdotes of, well, what else? Bad dating. Because let's be honest, that's what I do best. That, and not taking my own advice or heeding obvious warning signs. Such as, you know it's not going well when fourteen minutes into dinner, you ask your date, who's a well-known Wall Streeter—you all know him I just can't say his name—and he's been going on and on about homosexuality. So you kind of lean over and say, Excuse me, are you homosexual? And he looks at you and goes, not right now. And you go, what the fuck? And he goes, I used to dabble in it when I was younger however, just to set your mind at ease, I can totally tell you I'm an anal virgin. However, I totally sympathize with what women have to go through when they give a blowjob, if you know what I mean. And meanwhile I wouldn't, like, I missed the freaking point. My motto has always been, subtlety just confuses people. But hi, he didn't do ass.
Anyhow, it's also not going well when you notice your boyfriend of several months—a well-known TV personality—can only get off if he's having sex with you from behind while watching himself on the TV. It's kind of like getting spitroasted by the same guy. Fabulous. You should all try it.
Or, you know it's not going well when your indie film producer blind date says, you know you can probably tell by the look on my face that something's wrong. Because I knew him for all of five minutes beforehand, FYI. I'm like, oh really? No why? And he's like I totally shouldn't tell you. I'm like, oh come on I'm a gossip columnist, I won't tell anyone. And then he goes well you know, my ex-girlfriend just called and said that she's two months pregnant with my child. However, that bitch could totally be lying. I'm like, ohmygod, what are you a Ricki Lake show [inaudible]? I mean, hell. We didn't go on a second date.
But you know it's also not going well after you're fooling with this guy, he's totally cute, he's an Irish Catholic, from one of the boroughs, I won't say which one, and you wake up and you're hey, what's up, I'm putting on one of your shirts, I hope you don't mind. And he looks and he goes, oh my god that's not my shirt. And you go why not? And he goes it's my roommates. And I go what? And he goes, yeah, we're in my roommates room. And you go, [gasp!] Why are we not in your room? And he was like, oh well you know, it was closer? But his room was right next door so of course I want to go see his room, right? I check out his room, which by the way, his bed had hospital corners, above it was a bleeding Jesus Christ crucifix, and on the nightstand, an 8x11 glossy of his mother. [Loud gasp!] Holy shitbuggers! [inaudible] But there's more.
You probably should not go out with a guy who on the first date gets totally shitfaced, and by shitfaced I mean wobbling shitfaced. Seven hour date, at first I thought he was kinda hot and I just wanted to see where it would go. He gets totally shitfaced and at the end, randomly he screams out, "WE CAN FUCK BUT YOU CAN'T HAVE MY BABY!" I'm like holy shit, like I was going to inseminated myself right there, I mean it's not like I'm fucking 35. Not yet! Had my annual 25th for the eighth year in a row. So horrible, I ended up dating him for like 5 months. It didn't work out.
But the biggest warning sign that it's just not going to work out is when you're on a date with an Oscar-nominated, screenplay writer/director and he sits there and looks at you and says, "I spent much of December in Brazil with Fabio." And which point the hairs on the back of my neck stood up because it's kind of like saying you went to a strip joint with Tara Reid—nothing good can come of that shit. And so I go, oh? And he goes, well on my trip to Brazil with Fabio where I fucked so many women, my dick broke. And I'm like, ooohhh. And he goes, no really I've got the scabs to prove it. And I go holy shitbuggers, I'm from Ohio, where I come from we call that an STD. And he goes, no. I went to the doctor, I'm totally clean. And which point I was like, ha ha ha [inaudible]. It didn't really go anywhere after the second date, but thank goodness I am still an eternal optimist which is why, hi. I'm free, hi, if there's any straight ones out there [no one responds]. And also, is our first reader, Candace Bushnell who after many years of kissing frogs finally found her prince but is still going to regale us with stories of bad sex. All pre-Charles I'm sure. Just FYI, Charles is a stallion from what I've heard....