Mens Vogue writer (and dater of teenage soap star Leven Rambin) Hud Morgan threw a loud-ass "champagne Easter party" in his West Village brownstone, where the frutini-drinking former gossip columnist lives in a studio somewhere on West 11th Street. One of his neighbors sent us a party report, written in the style of Jay McInerney and disguised as a noise complaint. What kind of people came? "Very very loud people, as if each is trying to make sure that whatever he or she is saying is heard by even those speaking more loudly. They are shouting such things as, 'Who bothers to learn their doorman's name?!?'"
"Today a note went up on the bulletin board that someone would be hosting a champagne Easter party (go figure) in the courtyard/garden this afternoon. It was signed by Hud Morgan. I thought, "How odd." At three people began to gather, and they are very very loud people, as if each is trying to make sure that whatever he or she is saying is heard by even those speaking more loudly. They are shouting such things as, "Who bothers to learn their doorman's name?!?" Names of film directors are being bandied about, as well as the qualities of extremely rare wool. I half-expect to hear that someone is wearing a scarf made from the lanugo of premature human infants.
My apartment opens directly out into the courtyard/garden, so it's impossible for me to ignore the mayhem. A few minutes ago, no longer able to fight the impulse to see if the host is indeed THE Hud Morgan, the man weakened by Julia Allison's kryptonite, and the bedmate of a high-school student, I walked out on to my own courtyard. I coolly pretended to inspect the headless pigeon recently left there, then looked up long enough to take in the gathering.
How I wish I had a photograph to send you, because the composition alone tells a wonderful story. The guests are all sitting down, and one person is standing: Hud. The guests continue to shout at one another and laugh in ways that would be considered pathological in mental institutions — until Hud begins to speak. But the best part is what he's wearing. He has on a horizontally wide-striped sweater, the stripes being in bright primary colors. It looks like nothing so much as what a closeted gay rower would wear to a Yale football game. But the best part is that he's wearing a white shirt under it with the collar popped. One could weep.
More people are arriving every moment, and my work day is undoubtedly over. I would be resentful, but how can I be angry at people who are undoubtedly celebrating the resurrection of their personal savior, Jesus, by drinking bottle after bottle of champagne?"