The Unruly Heir Spring '08 Show And Afterparty

Socialgay Kristian Laliberte, who does the PR for fledgling label Unruly Heir, had promised us "more of a presentation than a show, with models walking down the runway to inhabit tableaus vivant, or living painting." What this meant: models, dressed in preppie clothes but carrying props such as a croquet mallet, or a ghetto blaster boombox, or a hobo's hankie-on-stick thing, walked down the runway, posed at the end of it it, and then walked over to the side and pretended to "tag" a painting that was pretending to be a fancy painting by spritzing it lightly with pastel spraypaint. One of them threw a tennis ball into the audience! Another walked with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. It was all very badass, very Port Authority meets Palm Beach. Or: very Dalton meets Once I Saw 'Paris Is Burning.' The inimitable Laurel Ptak documented it for posterity.

Heinous Celeb-Studded Cafe Operated By Owners Of Heinous Celeb-Studded Club

Sometimes two mysterious and crappy things that seem like they should be related actually are. This is great, since it reduces two crappy things into just one. For instance! The gutting sense of wonder at why the "hottest celebrity hangout" is actually the upstairs of a cruddy Soho cafe was somewhat eroded by today's revelation that the owners of "Upstairs" (as Cafe Bari is called) are the swarthy brothers Martignetti. Les freres Martignetti are the proprietors of the eponymous Bar Martignetti, which is to pink-shirted preppy dickheads what an empty parking lot by I-95 is to day laborers: A place to gather and drink and await desperately-needed attention. With that, the fog of mystery dissipates, leaving only the stench of knowledge in its place.

Danny A and Bar Martignettis Don't Jive [Guest of a Guest]

Preppie Underground Railroad Reaches Soho

Manhattan Twentysomething Douchebags, Perfectly Encapsulated

Douchebag Restaurants Hall of Fame Entrant: Bar Martignetti

it has only been open one day and last night it had already hit the bell on the test-your-strength machine of douchebagery. really, it was like the meatpacking district had moved to nolita. scary. there was a 18-year-old-seeming girl at the door who was openly sobbing on her cellphone to the point where her makeup was running. usually in the meatpacking district this sort of drunken meathead mating drama will occur after midnight at least, but this was at 11pm. also music was so loud the woman at the hostess stand couldnt hear me.
i was in there for literally one second and i pressed the emergency eject button.