Last night was the opening of the unfortunately-named Beaver Bar, the lobby/sales office/bar of what will eventually be William Beaver House, which is real-estate god Andre Balazs's new luxury condominium set to open in Lower Manhattan at some undetermined point in the future. Apparently, when one is looking to sell ridiculously expensive condos to the oversexed power-hungry Wall Street demographic, your marketing scheme should center on an adorable cartoon beaver. We know, we wouldn't have thought it either, but the guy has a ton of money, so who are we to argue? Instead, we sent Gawkslave Erica, photog Nikola Tamindzic, and videographer Richard Blakeley to cover the festivities. Enjoy a beaverlicious display of photos, plus Nikola's extra-adorable full gallery, plus dancing near-naked ladies on fire and the textual rundown after the jump.
Walking into the lobby where the party was held, which, rumor has it, was not even in the actual building, just a rented promo space, I was struck by a sudden urge to get ridiculously drunk. Luckily, since I got there right at 9 p.m. like the good little slave I am, pretty much the only people there were me and some bored-looking ladies in yellow dresses serving cocktails. Nice. Also nice? One of the other three people there was Mr. Balazs himself. (Did you know it was pronounced with a soft "g" at the end, like it rhymes with mirage? I didn't. Awkward.) Anyway, dude is smoking hot, all tan and perfect haired. Nice work there, Uma. But I digress. So the space looked sort of like an old bank, with the bar being where the tellers used to be. On either side of the room were sample units. It was kind of like getting drunk at a fancy Ikea. A really fancy Ikea. One with couches made of what appeared to be horse skin. (Do people do that? Does anyone know?). Also, rich people apparently like to bathe together, because the bathtubs were big enough for at least fifteen anorexic model types. There were belly dancers with fire and one chick working a hula hoop like I have never seen. Enjoy:
It's just fascinating how the other half lives. This being my first party crash, I was understandably nervous. My nerves were calmed however by the arrival of my fellow Gawker peeps: editorial director Lockhart Steele, interns Scott and Stephanie, photographers Katie and Nikola, and videographer Richard. The few glasses of wine didn't hurt either.
I realized quickly that my usual party MO — standing in the corner and making fun of people — was not going to be acceptable, so I tried chatting up a few folks. After telling Lloyd Grove I was his biggest fan, (Not even a lie! I miss that Lowdown!), I tried to mingle with two women from Women's Wear Daily. Unfortunately, they barely made eye contact with me until I told them I worked for Gawker. Maybe they smelled the Old Navy on me. (Note to self, next time write down snotty ladies' names for use in write-up.)
By 11:30 p.m. everyone was drunk enough to start smoking inside and I had the pleasure of getting a once-over from Mr. Fabian Basabe (Impressive!). It was a good time. I mean, booze is booze, no matter how rich and important the people serving it are, right? The biggest disappointment? Moby, whose name appeared on the shot list but was nowhere to be found at the party. Sad.