We don't believe in self-help, or help in any form really, but something about the release of a diet book set at Marquee seemed too good to resist. Fortunate for you, not so for fortunate for the Team Party Crashers forced to endure this travesty. Gridskipper's Joshua Stein dragooned Laurel Ptak into photo duty, and off they went, never suspecting what lay in store. If you don't believe, just look at the evidence in our gallery, which contains a very small but potent incidence of NSFW. Full writeup after the jump.
Under the bright lights and onto the chins, single and double, of those awaiting entrance into Marquee last night, the carpet reflected its tawny red hue, an urban buttercup affirming yes, these made-up men and women did like fame and the good life and wanted more of it. The party to celebrate the release of The Saint-Tropez Diet seemed a promising place to start.
Marquee, as socialites will know, is bicameral. The lower level is a dance-floor and bar; the upper level is a quieter lounge area. Last night, Safe Horizon was throwing a party downstairs, while the upstairs was reserved for the STD party. It wasn't a good sign that more and skinnier people were queued for a party benefiting victims of domestic violence.
For what was essentially a cookbook, the upstairs crowd was remarkably well-heeled. Author Apostolos Pappas apparently has friends in high places like, say, Saint-Tropez. Pappas, a Greek magnate and biochemist whose previous publications include "Metabolic Fate and Selective Utilization of Major Fatty Acids in Human Sebaceous Gland," summers in Saint-Tropez. As do a number of other revelers, like Annabelle Jasmin Verhoye, a painter "polished and gelatinous on first impact," just like her new work. Verhoye wasn't the only artist in attendance. James Tully, whose large blue eyes stood out from his pale face contorted in abject terror at Gawker's name. " I was mentioned once," he whined. "Choire Sicha said something mean about me." Publicist Nora Lawlor loomed and demanded we say nothing mean about her. Moving from clingy to clingy, an Asian woman was wearing a sequined Santa costume that clung to her surprisingly curvaceous middle-aged body. The effect was only burnished by her outfit's total lack of appropriateness, in temporal as well as sartorial terms. Next to her, James Edstrom introduced himself as the "multifamous paparazzi" and the guy Page Six always writes about. "Fuck George Clooney," Edstrom spat, his two young "freelance photographers" cringing. "I made him. Without me he's nothing! NOTHING!" The younger of the Tadzios leaned in to me (we're pegging him at 12), whispering, "He doesn't know what he's saying,"
As the dismayingly impecunious open bar ended after the shortest hour in the world, the party played itself out in the corners. In one such, Janel Robinson and Brandon Conrad "kicked it." Friends of the DJ, Robinson is a "freelance publicist" and "poet" ("My company is called the Robinsun Group. See, I'm a poet."). Conrad, according to Robinson, is a freelance promoter, while according to Conrad himself, he "does shit for Island/Def Jam." Word. We ourselves got cornered by a bewildered and drunk girl identified only as Carmen Sandiego who by turns threatened to smash our camera or demanded we make out. Probably the most confusing situation in terms of etiquette I've encountered. Thankfully, Patrick McMullan swooped in and saved me with rampant shutterbuggism. In the far corner, and by far the best thing I've seen in my tender years, a banker and his girlfriend/wife/prostitute engaged in what could only be called sex. An oblivious Indian man sat nearby as the suited man drilled the split-crotch betighted woman straddling him. The bathroom attendants lined up to take turns gawking. Back in the other far corner, Robinson and Conrad, the poet and the promoter, had left. Their seat at the banquette was occupied by another amorous couple. Horace Klein, with book and glow-stick cocktail in hand, informed us this couple was married, but to other people. Zing, Horace. Zing.