1. The New (New) Bohemian

Core Members: Tara Subkoff, Arden Wohl, Leigh Lezark, Stella Schnabel, Waris Ahluwalia, Chiara Clemente, Leelee Sobieski
Style.com says: With their creative-class roots and Opening Ceremony duds, these free-spirit types are giving the anemic benefit circuit a badly needed shot in the arm. Find them anywhere "It" is at—from fancy galas to the smoky back room at the Beatrice. Suggested conversation starters? Indie filmmaking, whatever patron saint Chloë Sevigny is up to now, headbands.
Absurd quote: "We're always looking for answers. Some people are looking for it in a socialite maybe. But you know, it just depresses me: Some girl named Peaches who lives in the Bronx…looks at this world and says, 'Oh wow.' And I would never want to give off something that is an illusion, because you hurt people that way. And they're already struggling so much—the people." —Arden Wohl
We say: If these people are bohemians, then we're a goddamn mango. There's nothing free-spirited about putting on a $4,000 dress you didn't pay for and then hitting a $10,000-a-plate dinner (which you also didn't pay for), even if you follow it up with a night of indoor smoking at "The Bee." Anybody who uses "headbands" as a conversation starter should be punched in the face immediately, and have their headband stolen so they no longer have anything to talk about.

2. The European Union

Core Members: Vladimir Roitfeld, Julia Restoin-Roitfeld, Tatiana Santo Domingo, Margherita Missoni, Stavros Niarchos, Andrea Casiraghi
Style.com says: What do young moneyed Euros do in New York? Stick together. More cliquish than seventh-grade girls, this group's regular haunts include Cipriani, Da Silvano, and anywhere else that can charge $35 for a plate of pasta and keep a straight face. They also congregate at the Washington Square Park town house of longtime couple Tatiana Santo Domingo (the Colombian beer heiress) and Andrea Casiraghi (Princess Caroline of Monaco and Hanover's son). Margherita Missoni, who dates Casiraghi's stepbrother, Ernst of Hanover, is arguably the most outgoing of the bunch (and the most liable to mingle with the other social groups). But Stavros Niarchos, who's reportedly romanced Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan, has his own unique way of sampling American culture.
Absurd quote: "I've been in New York for four years now, and I feel that I have done it. It's a place where you can be busy all the time without ever doing anything." — Margherita Missoni.
We say: Busy all the time without doing anything? They could have a career in blogging — if they had careers. Apparently, one of the E.U.'s favorite "hotspots" is the British Airways' entertainment space at JFK, which pipes in the scent of freshly cut grass (you can't have them breathing QUEENS AIR, after all). Also, Stavros Niarchos? Bring your Valtrex prescription!

3. The Swans 2.0

Core Members: Amanda Hearst, Tinsley Mortimer, Fabiola Beracasa, Lauren Santo Domingo, Zani Gugelmann, Claire Bernard
Style.com says: This group is a closed set. Olivia Palermo, for example, has yet to recover from last spring's misstep—you know, when the now-defunct Web site Socialiterank.com published a letter that Palermo supposedly penned, apologizing for her status-seeking ways. It's still unclear if the missive was a hoax or an honest plea, but, no matter, it fell on deaf ears. Palermo's persistence has kept her at some of the parties, but not all the right ones. If you're not in the club yet, you probably won't be. Meanwhile, these socials—now inching into their thirties—can do no wrong. Tinsley Mortimer made a questionable move, posing for the cover of the New York Post's weekend glossy, Page Six Magazine, and no one blinked a false eyelash.
Absurd quote: "Paris Hilton brought to light the existence of the socialite to Middle America and the world. Before, it was either models or actresses—but socialites were, most times, born into this lifestyle. That's what fascinates people. It's a continuous lifestyle that people are fascinated by. But it's not all the media's fault. You know, it's us posing for the cameras and going out and exploiting the spotlight for our careers." —Fabiola Beracasa
We say: Olivia dodged a bullet, wethinks. Actually plenty of people blinked (and cringed and shuddered) at Tinsley's neurotic, self-consumed weight loss confessional. Also, no one really became "fascinated" with Paris until she started getting naked. Pretty much no one in Middle America has ever heard of Zani Gugelmann. In fact, they probably think that's the name of the ring master at Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey's Circus.

4. The Art Stars

Core Members: Dan Colen, Dash Snow, Ryan McGinley, Aaron Young, Nate Lowman, Mirabelle Marden, Melissa Bent, Amy Greenspon
Style.com says: Despite their "whatever, dude" mien, Colen, Snow, and their scruffy tribe of Lost Boys know that a gift for self-promotion is just as important as having a way with a paintbrush. Their biggest sell—apart from their actual art, of course—is their cooler-than-thou posse, of which everyone below 14th Street seems to want to be a part. "You realize that, like, your social context has a lot to do with, like, your success," Colen recently articulated.
Absurd quote: "It's funny to me that Dash [Snow] has become like a rock star, but he's so paranoid. That comes from graffiti culture—like, you want everybody to know who you are and you're going to write your name all over the city, but you can't let anyone know who you really are. It's, like, this idea of being notorious." —Ryan McGinley
We say: Full disclosure: We know next to nothing about art, so we can't even tell you if these dudes actually sell their shit. But everything you need to know can be found in the phrase "cooler-than-thou posse." And a person's popularity (excuse us, their "social context") shouldn't be determined by their success. It should be determined by the quality of their drugs.

5. The Catwalk Queens

Core Members: Lisa Cant, Gemma Ward, Lily Donaldson, Caroline Winberg
Style.com says: The only thing more intimidating than standing next to a model at a party is standing next to four models at a party. Especially when they're all giggling and taking pictures of each other on their camera phones and just generally having a waaay better time then you are. Curious as to how this sorority of gorgeousness operates, we turned to our trusted source on the inside, who gamely broke down the group dynamic: "Lily is the funny one, although Lisa has a good sense of humor, too. Gemma started off timid, because she's a long way from Australia, but is now comfy being a ringleader. And Caroline is just always up for a good time." So there you have it. Oh, and there's this: Aside from Donaldson, who dates Vladimir Roitfeld, everyone's single. Gentlemen, start your engines. (OK, forget it, you have no chance.)
Refreshingly non-absurd quote: "I had come straight from my auntie and uncle's farm, and I was wearing this big gray barn jacket with mud all over it. When the scout came up to me, I said, 'No, thank you.' But my friends were like, 'Hell, yes!' They forged my mum's signature and pushed me in front of the cameras." —Gemma Ward on breaking into modeling
We say: Anyone who's ever stood next to four models at a party and had to duck to avoid their protruding, malnourished sternums knows that it's usually more frightening than intimidating. What looks great in a picture can be kind of horrifying in person.

6. The New Kids on the Blog

Core Members: Leven Rambin, Hud Morgan, Mary Rambin, Julia Allison, Emily Brill, Devorah Rose, Annabel Vartanian, Kristian Laliberte
Style.com says: This year's crop of newbies owes a lot to the gossip bloggers who, under pressure to churn out a certain number of posts a day, are always ready to make a scandal out of a tidbit. Gawker.com's obsessive coverage of Julia Allison (including plenty of bikini shots) heightened the Star magazine editor's profile immeasurably. In case readers are itching to know more, there's always Allison's own navel-gazing site, Itsmejulia.com. In fact, a lot of these kids have turned to the Internet to document the minutiae of their daily life, from party-hopping (Emily Brill's Essentiallyemily.com) to Restylane injections (Mary Rambin's Stylebymaryrambin.com). If Truman Capote, notorious divulger of social secrets, were around today, he'd be out of a job.
Absurd quote: "I want to be New York's answer to Rachel Zoe…. Yeah, Nicole Richie did fire her and called her a bitch, but you know she worked her way up to that. She's one of my idols." —Kristian Laliberte
We say: Oh noes! It's all our fault! At the risk of adding fuel to the fire, we'll just say this: The last time we saw Leven Rambin she was getting her hair did at our salon a few months ago. She texted the entire time. While she was getting her hair washed, some man friend perched on the end of the chair facing her and she had her legs up in the air draped OVER HIS SHOULDERS. Then she ran out on the bill.

He is risen. (The arguing blonde on the right is Ana Rogers, curator for Petra Projects, a tipster informs. The guy in the glasses is David Meyer, "does PR for the Standard hotels I think." Girl on left holding beer cup: Samantha Walsh.)

"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?"

Full video:

Emily Brill: Men’s Vogue Editors Say The Darndest Things on Gergory Littley's Voicemail

The scene: last night, around midnight, at the Beatrice Inn, the low-ceilinged West Village bar and nightclub. The characters: Hud Morgan from Men's Vogue, pictured left, and his friend and rival, Spencer Morgan of the once-elite New York Observer. Off-camera: 17-year-old blonde starlet, Leven Rambin, who, incidentally, plays a troubled starlet in tonight's Lipstick Jungle. There's the sound of a slap.

It's not the first time the Men's Vogue writer lost his temper after a long night at the Beatrice. Earlier this month, he berated Julia Allison because the Star magazine talking bosom posted up a picture of herself with a red-scarfed Hud, which ended up on Gawker. He blamed her for pulling him in to her vortex of bad publicity.

But Hud has a vortex all of his own. The bullying of Allison provided a perfect excuse for gossip blogs like this to reveal Hud was dating the "little sister" whom Allison adopted until the 17-year-old actress, Leven Rambin from All My Children, stole her then-boyfriend, libertarian geek Jakob Lodwick. (Confused? There's a diagram).

And about a week ago, we hear, Hud and Spencer had a big argument on the phone. The two Morgans are friends and, yes, they are often mistaken for eachother, because they're in a similar line of work and share the same surname. Spencer Morgan, who recently acquired a fiancee after years as a man-about-town, was in Los Angeles last week for the Oscars. "Did you know that Hud Morgan got engaged?" he was asked. But the two differ in one crucial respect: Hud, for a former gossip columnist for the New York Daily News, has an extremely thin skin.

In the phone conversation, Hud asked Spencer how the engagement was working out. Spencer, having heard about Hud's new girlfriend, 17-year-old Leven Rambin of All My Children, ribbed him about her age. "How old did you say she was?" he asked, or words to that effect. You'd have thought that the polo-player-worshipping fruitini drinker would embrace the proof of his rampant heterosexuality. But no: Hud, embarrassed by the earlier Gawker item on his jailbait girlfriend, said he wanted a timeout on their friendship.

And last night? In a group with Radar's recently liberated Chris Tennant and other journalists, the argument resumed. According to witnesses, the conversation went something like this.

Spencer: "Dude, why didn't you respond to my email?" (He had apologized for the insult to Hud's teen girlfriend.)

Hud: "Do you want me to drop you?"

Spencer: "Yeah, sure. That's a good idea."

Hud walks down the stairs. Spencer follows, bitchslaps him, later telling friends: "He needed a dose of reality."

Hud, to the bouncers: "He punched me! He assaulted me! I want him removed!"

Spencer, explaining the slap: "He wasn't worth a punch."

Bouncers escort Spencer to the side room to the right of the entrance, with the couches. The red handprint on Hud's face gradually fades. Consensus verdict: Spencer's game. Close scene.

• Manhattan media clusterfuck map

I'll be able to talk more about it when the ink is dry. But just picture Tila Tequila's show, but with more herpes (way more) and less morality. :) KIDDING!

Leven gravitates to older friends like boyfriend Hud Morgan of Men's Vogue, ex-boyfriend Jakob Lodwick and the array of names on this handy chart. She also is careful to stay away from other teenagers, since according to her Page Six Magazine column they don't "have anything to talk about" since they don't "get to go to movie premiers and fashion shows and fly out to Los Angeles for movie roles."

So what does Leven do when she gets called out for social climbing?

"You have to be prepared for people to call you a man-eater or a publicity seeker," Rambin said. "I don't understand the perverse fascination with my life".

Don't worry about it, Leven. "Publicity seeker" is just one of those nasty slurs people throw at television stars who cut rap albums and write gossip magazine columns about their fabulous lives. The more you deny wanting attention, the closer you get to becoming the next Lindsay Lohan.

(Photo: WENN)

The recap: Rambin was formerly a Julia Allison friend. Then she hooked up with JA's former boyfriend Jakob Lodwick, and is now dating Men's Vogue writer Hud Morgan, who recently ranted at JA at a party. The sexually ambiguous Morgan, who loves Fruitinis, did not appreciate JA talking about him around town. Probably smart!

The visual: All these connections are explained in a handy chart.

The implications, and questions: Rambin, who was recently proclaimed by Splash News to be the next Paris, Britney, or, most notably, Lindsay, is going to be playing one of her doppelgangers on TV. Is this her formal audition for skank stardom? Is it the first step on the road to nude photo shoots so shocking they save the magazine industry and inspire limericks? Will Rambin become the newest incarnation of Marilyn Monroe, whose sultry image Lohan co-opted in a desperate grab for continued relevance? If so, we will surely be the first ones to tell you.

• How Hud Morgan is connected to everybody, a map
• Background on Hud Morgan

Hud Morgan, who is trying to establish himself as a serious journalist after an apprenticeship under Lloyd Grove at the New York Daily News, was particularly offended by a photograph of him, standing awkwardly in a red scarf, beside Allison in her hand-on-hip pose. (This trademark look was so important to Allison that she campaigned to have the photo on her Wikipedia page changed.) The image, which was first posted to Allison's personal blog, was highlighted on Gawker, and mocked by commenters, to the irritation of Morgan's boss. Not the image that a Men's Vogue writer should be conveying.

But spare the sympathy for Morgan. It's not as if the louche writer is a naive victim of Allison's publicity machine. Morgan put himself front-and-center in Tabloid Wars, the 2006 documentary series on the Daily News, in which he agonized on screen about the shallow life of a gossip columnist's gofer, and then drowned his sorrows in free booze. Best line: "Can you get me a beer, because I'm such a man? I want to order a fruit-ini, but I'm on camera." And he's embarrassed Allison in public, before. At a party for Arianna Huffington in 2007, Morgan stole Allison's cellphone, and drunkenly read out text exchanges between the dating columnist and her magazine editor boyfriend of the time, Dave Zinczenko, paying particular attention to mentions of blow jobs and Allison's post-sex bruises. The Men's Health editor soon broke off the relationship.

That's all history; there is a statute of limitations on the offenses committed by drunken gossip columnists. But Morgan's rehabilitation, since moving to Men's Vogue, is superficial. Put aside yesterday's drunken rant at Beatrice Inn. (Allison can inspire rage in even the most sober of people.) Guess whom he's currently dating? It's almost too lurid to be true: Leven Rambin, the 17-year-old star of daytime soap, All My Children. The same Rambin whom Allison called her "adopted little sister", until the barely legal actress lured the dating columnist's geek boyfriend, Jakob Lodwick. (Incidentally, Hud Morgan was one of Allison's first friends in New York, introduced by Grove, whom she knew from Washington, D.C.) Rambin's guilt, now compounded by her latest fling, doesn't trump ambition: the teenaged actress avoids photographs with Allison, on her publicist's advice. "I'm like media kryptonite," Allison tells friends.

Conclusion: they all deserve eachother.

Mathnet's new line beats out the original, Scenes From The Party: Man Questions Life, Mac Computer Vaulted To The Heavens.

[A]n hour on the premises will reveal items you never ever knew you wanted until you saw them (an over-the-shoulder tote that stows 10 bottles of wine—husbands, lock up your wives) as well as items probably better suited to a Yale secret society (a skull and crossbones needlepoint cummerbund). The Reds alone take up the entire back wall, and in recent years the collection has expanded to shorts, hats, sweaters, and—que scandale!—yarmulkes.

Secret Society [Radar]

Inside the restaurant, Tom Wolfe had his photo taken with Julia Allison. (That bears repeating: Tom Wolfe had his photo taken with Julia Allison.) Kurt Andersen made a little chit-chat before begging off to the Larry King appreciation party in the next room. (They had better snacks, by far. Also CNN partygoers received a Coach-imitation leather tote with a CNN tag, and a DVD of King's reputedly best work. You could sneak in through the kitchen.) The two parties side-by-side may have been a slight disaster on the part of Steven Rubenstein and his PR folks, but it came off fine, actually. (It was a question of wattage; did we see Hillary Clinton presswoman Jennifer Hanley outside, meaning that Hillary Clinton was inside the CNN party?)

Uniformed waiters were aggressive with the hors d'oeuvres, most of which featured caviar in some form, but the knot of yarmulked men gathered by the bar ignored them. (The duck, the shrimp, the crabcakes!) Also not eating, or drinking, was Jared's rehabilitated felon father, Charles Kushner, who mostly spoke in low tones to men at the end of the bar. Ever-gracious Jared entertained a seemingly endless stream of well-wishers and posed for photographs. The real estate broker-developer Michael Shvo said he'd call him about having lunch. Jared recently purchased the most expensive office building in America.

So how were things at the paper? "We're having a lot of fun," Jared said. Was he dating Ivanka Trump? "We're just friends. But thanks for asking." So that partnership was all business too.

Ms. Trump was in a very nice short black dress, looking tall and blonde; she talked for what seemed like eons with Jared's assistant Kimberly. Steven Rubenstein, who represents the Observer and the Kushner family, made sure everyone was having a good time and that the photographers were getting all the right people; he talked with did not talk with New York Times reporter Allen Salkin, who wrote such nice things about Jared in the Sunday Styles section.

Cindy Adams talked to Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, notebook in hand, hair at attention. Salon editor Joan Walsh, in a pantsuit, stayed close to Salon writer and former NYO staffer Rebecca Traister. Harry Evans was there with his wife, former lots-of-places editor Tina Brown, who spent a lot of time deep in very close conversation with W/WWD boy Jacob Bernstein.

"I love this tabloid!" Mr. Evans said, Britishly. "I seized it with great joy before a long bus ride, and I loved every word!" He is somewhat reminiscent of a brilliant leprechaun. "Joe Conason on politics! John Heilpern! The Obama piece! I thought it was terrific! The tabloid format is far better." Mr. Evans said that the bus had taken him to Southampton.

Ms. Brown has recently finished her book about Princess Diana. "It's like a plum pudding—there are great nuggets everywhere!" she said. "It's as much about celebrity culture as it is about Diana herself." And how did Ms. Brown feel about the Stephen Frears film The Queen? "I loved The Queen," Ms. Brown said. "It was very accurate! Except for the portrayal of Robin Janvrin, the Queen's private secretary. He looks like Kenneth Branagh in real life."

Ms. Brown said that the book had taken her a year and a half; for it, she conducted 250 interviews. "I feel like a giant whale has been lifted from my head."

Maer Roshan, who worked for Ms. Brown at her short-lived magazine Talk, was there with a bundle of his Radar-ites, including his lieutenant Chris Tennant, who was holding court with several ladies in a booth. He was wearing jeans that appeared to have been painted on. That tall woman with the jet-black hair, talking with the older man? So tall! Atoosa Rubenstein! Lots of flashbulbs.

Observer reporters seemed vaguely uncomfortable at such an extravagant gathering ("It's the Observer with money," more than one was overheard whispering), and they swiped multiple Bellinis as they came around on silver trays. Transom reporter Spencer Morgan however did not look uncomfortable.

Jessica Joffe wore eyeglasses. Slate editor Jacob Weisberg and Domino editor Deborah Needleman arrived with New York's Ariel Levy. Jacob is going on a three-month book leave soon. Andrew Balazs, Columbia J-school graduate, was there solo. Lloyd Grove was not in attendance, but Ben Widdicombe, Hud Morgan, and Daily News gossip boy Patrick Huguenin were.

We were promised there'd be no speeches but there was a microphone and so Jared took it and said that 20 years ago, when the New York Observer was founded, he was starting a venture called... kindergarten. His voice still has a little hint of his Livingston, New Jersey upbringing. The new website, he said, was to launch on Monday, but as a preview, they had a page up on the screen. (The Four Seasons, it turns out, does not have Internet access.) Jared said he was very fortunate to work with Peter Kaplan, the editor of the newspaper, a sentiment that was greeted with cheers from the crowd. "We get to go to the 21st century with a new newspaper," said Kaplan. He then referred to the paper's former owner and publisher, Arthur Carter, as "my buddy and weekly tormenter."

Of the paper, he said: "The paper is younger, thinner, and better looking, like Jared."

We talked to Peter Kaplan in person. "For anyone under 30, the New York Times is a queen-sized sheet!" he said. "Going smaller was the best thing we could have done. We're still smart. We still have an edge." He said something about possibly becoming the smartest tabloid in America. "It was time to make a change. I love it. It's great!"

Jacob Bernstein left in Peggy Siegal's car. The New Yorker's Nick Paumgarten may have left with William Berlind for stiffer drinks. Patrick McMullan's photographers would prove unable to identify Alex Kuczynski. Ivanka Trump left alone, and on foot, heading east on 52nd Street. —Doree

The mixture of financial types, publishing people, drink-cadging bloggers, and assorted hangers-on made for the kind of spectacle that, could they ever have conceived of it, would have made the Pilgrims decide that any kind of torture and oppression was better to endure than sailing to an unknown continent to lay the groundwork for a country that would, on some chilly evening in the early spring of one of the nation's most prosperous decades, put forth a party like this one. You hated loving hating to love being there, and you struggled to conceal yourself, and before you knew it you were being introduced to Jay McInerney and telling him that, yes, you were the one who called him "Douchebag, Jay Douchebag" on your silly little website, an admission he took with the calm demeanor of someone used to having complete strangers let him know that they had referred to him as a douchebag each time he made a new acquaintance. Which is to say he smiled, nodded, and then told a story about himself that, while amusing, did nothing to disprove the earlier judgment. Still, he was perfectly friendly, and was soon posing for pictures with young Vachon, who was outfitted in the standard blazer and underbuttoned shirt that seem to mark so many young men who have come into a great fortune via inheritance, the financial markets, or gigantic book deals. This was his room, this was his time, and everyone around him moved about with the constant awareness that they were in the presence of the season's Next Big Thing. He outshone the combined wattage of the thousand Next Little Things who scurried about the packed event trying to grab the oversized appetizers that were being passed around by harried buspeople.

Looking around you were overwhelmed by the stunning mediocrity of most of it. Did you see Nick Denton in the back, standing close—but not too close—to his former employee (and Mergers dedicatee) Elizabeth Spiers? Was that Radar resurrectionist Maer Roshan leaning back and carrying low in a conversation with a reporter from WWD? Who would win the battle of drunken WASP stereotypes with the surname Morgan, Hudson or Spencer? Could the News' Ben Widdicombe get in enough free wines before Cocktail's Jo Piazza finished the last bottle? Why weren't we informed that no one wears ties anymore? It's a sad day when publishing types are dressed better than the finance types, but it's even sadder when the bloggers are sporting neckwear.

There was a stunned moment of shocked ecstasy when, by the wall where Roshan deputy Chris Tennant was disgruntledly flirting, a full set of breasts came into view, their sparkly flesh somehow offering to extend and make good the promise of sex. Then, just as quickly you realized it was Julia Allison, and tried to think of puppies and babies, anything good and pure. It shouldn't have been a surprise to see her—she's everywhere, like ejaculate on a porn booth floor—but it seemed like as good a time as any to surf the crowd and find someone willing to offer a quote. I passed by Radar whatever Neel Shah, but I didn't need any advice on dating or taxicab etiquette or blogging for Glamour, so I moved on. Spotting literary agent David Kuhn, I introduced myself and told him I worked for Gawker, which was probably not a good idea.

"So David," I asked, "how do you feel about being Out magazine's fiftieth most powerful gay?"

"Is this for print?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Then just say I'm happy I wasn't the fifty-first." He then went on to say something extremely funny and extremely off the record about Out's Aaron Hicklin and, perhaps realizing that the last thing you want to do around an inebriated gossip blogger is start being candid, asked "Hey, do you want to meet the real Roger Thorne?"

Thorne is the "id" character of Mergers, an entitled, foul-mouthed, nip-slip-obsessed caricature of every Ivy League WASP who has done well in life due to family connections rather than any semblance of intelligence. How could I not want to meet the model? Kuhn, desperate to get rid of me lest he say something catty about Tina Brown, was happy to make the introductions and disappear.

"Dude, I love Gawker!" said the Thorne inspiration.

"Dude, I loved your character! How does it feel to be the model for Roger Thorne?"

"Dude, it's awesome! I mean, some of that stuff was exaggerated, but you know—" He suddenly grew wistful and displayed the kind of reticence with which the banker in the book was entirely unfamiliar. "I'd prefer that this isn't on Gawker. You know, I just want to have a good time."

I was started to feel that second stage of inebriation, the one where you know you have a good hour, if that, of comprehensibility left, so I nodded and shook his firm American hand and went out into the cool air to clear my head and fill my lungs with smoke. My head hurt from overindulgence in the drinks department and underindulgence on the solid side—we expect too much of alcohol and too little of hors d' uvre—but as I worked my way toward the door I swore I saw the only two women who work for Radar.

Outside was no better than in, except you could smoke and you were less likely to run into Nick Denton, who will pick random moments at parties to discuss the unnecessary technical changes he's forcing on your website and mutter ominously about post counts and generally just scare the shit out of you that you're going to be fired within the week. Managing Editor Choire Sicha was smoking—Managing Editor Choire Sicha is always smoking—and discussing the merits of Remnick v. Brown with Roshan, a longtime Brown partisan. Somewhere in the background I could hear the Canadian-accented tones of the Huffington Post's Rachel Sklar and her posse of Eat the Pressers. Balthazar habitu Lockhart Steele was chatting with New York Sun contributor Meghan Keane. Dealbreaker's John Carney hobbled about on one crutch. It occurred to me that these were the same fucking people I saw at work or in bars every day. I checked in with the people from Riverhead, who lamented the absence of Emily Gould since it left them unable to thank her for keeping the book so prominent in the cultural conversation.

Vachon approached once more. He was in excellent spirits, effusive with praise, modest in his own success, proud to point out the fine family members who had come to town for the celebration. Vachon told me how much my support for the novel meant to him, how my assessment of its flaws mirrored his own. He told me all this and my hand grew tighter around my drink. I stared at Dana blankly as I realized that having to write this report as an inconsistent dispatch in the style of his novel was going to be painful and time-consuming for me and anyone who had to read it. Then I felt warm liquid on my hand and looked at my tie and first noticed the thin trail of dark red that trickled down my jacket. I was spilling wine on myself and it became clear to everyone how drunk I was. It wasn't until I put the glass down and saw how the wine had pooled on my jeans and dripped down to my shoes, and how it came now more quickly, through my fingers, that, in the space of a final epiphany, I finally understood it all. I really need to switch to white; it stains less. —balk

Hud's becoming more like his former employer Lloyd Grove every day, noted another attendee, meaning drink-enjoying. We don't necessarily agree—though of course cautionary tales lurk around each of us. We should know!

So he and Julia Allison start having dirty chat about blowjobs and bruising. This was not the sort of high-quality intellectual debate observers expected from the Huffington scene. (They were hoping to find Elayne Boosler telling stories about cute animals!) But! Bruising? Really, Julia?

Upon investigation, Ms. Allison was indeed sporting a bruise on her left arm, roundabouts the bicep. Apparently her current boytoy, Men's Health editor Dave Zinczenko, fancies himself something of a wrestler. Ms. Allison wouldn't comment, for once in her life. (Good for her.) But we're concerned. Rose McGowan would never have put up with this sort of thing. —choire

Above, some of the lucky ones enjoy a cruise on the world's second largest yacht, the Savrona. And who's that dapper fellow on the left? It's former gossip fluffer-cum-Men's Voguebot (and Tabloid Wars breakout star) Hud Morgan. Good to see he's still wearing pink so well...though when sporting a bow-tie, he bears an undeniable resemblance to Tucker Carlson. Which is fitting, we suppose. Dance with those stars, Hud! Dance like nobody's watching!

Zac Posen's Turkish XXX-Press [Radar]

And the extra dosage: Feel Hud's pain as he is ruthlessly mocked by Grove and EIC Michael Cooke for wearing flip-flops. Bonus mockery when Grove brings up Cooke's rumored foot fetish.

Earlier: Gawker's Happily Insipid Coverage of 'Tabloid Wars'

Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of Tabloid Wars

Let's hope for better results next week, when they air an episode heavy on the ruminations of former gossip whore Hud Morgan.

Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of 'Tabloid Wars'