Pictured above, from left to right: Vice founder Suroosh Alvi, a hostage, UK/European editor Andrew Creighton, and Vice founder Shane Smith.

"Oh, man," Vice executive editor Chris Cechin giggled at the massive warehouse across the street from Vice's headquarters that housed last night's shitshow. "There're so many places to blackout in there!"

I dropped by the Vice offices in Williamsburg Friday afternoon to grab wristbands for Mo and I to get in. Chris wasn't joking. The space was the literalization of everything about Vice's culture of yore even before anything was even placed inside. Two floors of flat, dark space, with concrete pillars, and yes, plenty of places to get fucked up, black out, and make questionable decisions in questionable costumes. The question then became: with the $250,000 they've bragged about spending on this thing, what, exactly, will they fill it with?

"99%, these are gonna guarantee you admission into the party," VBS.tv staffer Rory Ahearn warned me as he handed over two paper wristbands dotted with smiley faces. "But to be on the safe side, get there early." He wasn't joking. We approached the party to an entire block of Williamsburg quartered off by cops and barricades, and two lines: one that snaked around the block and then some, and the other—for the blessedly wristbanded—which ran the length of half a block. Rory was nice enough to get us in, past the complete insanity of the line and the line's security, who weren't being kind to anyone, including the Vice staff. This would later become a problem.

Once inside, Mo—dressed as Playboy's Marge Simpson—and I—dressed as the scariest creature of them all: a cracked-out blogger—cased the place. On the first floor, ravey techno music blared. They'd installed a halfpipe they—I don't know, staffed?—with some decent skateboarders on it. People weren't really watching. But they were watching Williamsburg's aspiring American Apparel models strip to their skivvies for the photo shoot Vice had set up for the party's attendees, who almost always dropped trou for the camera. Two bars dotted the floors, and getting booze wasn't a problem. Lots of tequila, lots of Colt 45. Now do you know whose party you're at? Then take a deep breath. Cigarette and weed smoke clouded the air. Now you do. No wonder they didn't pay for fog machines.

The second floor: bangers, blasting. In line with their 15th anniversary theme, almost all 90s hip-hop could've kept an awesome, dancy, sweaty, drunk, Blue States Lose: All-Stars crowd of costumed hipsters dancing, if not for the bands interrupting them. Jersey post-garage youngsters Titus Andronicus got screamy, seminal afropunk band Bad Brains got punky, and almost every other band was unanimously heckled in some regard. Two more bars upstairs kept the booze freely flowing. Beers were beginning to get tossed across the room. I resisted the urge. It was difficult.

From a balcony in the back of the second floor, Vice's inner-circle watched from their perch. There were two bathrooms, and two "green rooms." Attorney General Andrew Cuomo's former-press-secretary-turned-fucking-Vice-staffer Alexander Detrick grabbed me and got me up there, even though I didn't have the requisite "special" wristband with little fish dotting it. I wondered if this was an allusion to Jesus. It was entirely possible.

"There're some people you gotta meet. Hang tight." Detrick walked back in with Vice founder Suroosh Alvi. "This is the Gawker guy," Detrick introduced me. Alvi was dressed like an Islamic Extremist. Feet were shuffled, loins were girded. "Yeah? Alright. We can take our hits. We're not pussies about it." I asked Suroosh about the cash spent on the party, and how Vice has—as they said it—managed to stay afloat "while the dinosaurs that surround us slowly suffocate in the tar pits of their financial ruin."

"We're doing the same thing we've always done," Alvi explained. "We're careful with money. We don't waste it. Except when we wanna do retarded shit like this."

Making our way back downstairs, we ran into Animal New York's Bucky Turco. "Yeah, I got past the line. I saw some girl out there get slammed. Security manhandled her and kicked her out, and she threatened to quit Vice," he laughed. I guess she helped plan the party." This story was later confirmed to me by a second witness, one who tried to get in the party, but couldn't. Detrick stood at the front of the party while security told him to get out of the way. The party was nowhere near the full potential capacity of 1,800. It was maybe half that at 1:30 AM. The guards were only listening to two people, who couldn't be found, and Detrick wasn't one of them. "They've gone completely renegade," a Vice staffer explained. "They're in bed with the fuckin' cops." La Superior owner Filipe Mendez stood next to me on one side of the barricade, trying to get someone in. I was doing the same. Security warned us that if we stepped on the concrete outside the warehouse, we wouldn't get back in. Finally, I gave up. Nobody else was getting in that party if security there had anything to do with it. Besides, what's easier? Letting tons of people in and letting Vice take the heat, or denying entrance to relatively harmless hipsters, and calling it a night when it's time to get rid of the lucky few who gained entrance?

We've tried our best to approximate where Vice's money was allocated, but Turco astutely noted: "If you want an incredible party, you don't tell people you spent $250,000. You don't give them that expectation. You just spend it." He was disappointed.

I wasn't. I got in for free, didn't wait on line, drank a bunch of shitty beer and booze and bounced. I feel like I'd just had The Vice Experience, especially when a street fight later erupted outside the bar I'd retreated to down the street with the aforementioned denied party refugee. Maybe Vice did, too. Vice grew up, past their grimy roots, and is now a full-fledged capitalistic endeavor with its own corporate culture. They went from rejecting The Man, to taking his money, to becoming The Man. So why not waste a quarter mil on some party to get a bunch of Williamsburg kids—soft by any traditional Vice measure—fucked up? And why the fuck not have draconian security who, for one night, can put them back in the position of being oppressed by The Man? It's enough for them to prove that, like it or not, they're still Vice, and they're spending $250,000 on a party to very effectively remind themselves of that.

I ran into Cechin again on my way out. He was wearing some kind of knit sweatshirt, and asked me if I'd seen the bands. "A little bit," I told him. He closed his eyes, pushed me, and pointed upstairs, to where they were playing. "Go." Okay, but first, one last question for Chris: Where'd the $250K really go? Where were the drugs? He again, eyes at half-mast, grinned and pointed to his stomach. The possibility he's telling any degree of the truth, in any context, should not be ruled out.

And that was the Vice party.

Bro you know what I'd totally fucking do with that chick and her straw? Bro what? Bro! A bunch of fucking blow. Bro. BRO! Blow: $100,000.
DO: Dude you know those girls who like look at every picture like they wanna fuck the camera? They can be 92 years-old and shitting in their Depends and it'd still be hot RIGHT? Well it's even super awesome hotter when it's a tatted up 'Burg babe with a celly in her strap.
DON'T: Do any drugs as unidentifiable as your costume.
"Dude. We gotta go. My fuckin' landlord's here. He tried evicting me outta McKibben seven times already."
DO: Brahsome, those rad honeys who could just snap your neck like fuckin' that and then shotgun a bunch of meth-laced Gatorade and do her little brother's long-division homework for him? Marriage material if you like the short-leash thing. Literally. Meth-laced Gatorade: $1,500
DO: Be a former Gawker night editor and current Animal New York blogger named The Cajun Boy, who walked into the party with a real, fully fucking functional axe. So when everyone else bitches about how they couldn't get in the party, you can say you walked in there with a not-at-all-concealed weapon. Also DO: be the most ass-stompingly large guy in the room, while carrying a giant fucking axe.
The Nightman Drunketh. FameGame's Ryan Brown was not hired to make sandwiches for this party, but gets +2 FameGame points anyway. Good thing, though, because apparently the only ones he had on him were made with Peanut Butter, Jelly, and Psilocybin.
DON'T: Act surprised when Mo drops a 'bow on you for being a second-rate Playboy Bunny. Fight! Fight! Fight! [Alternately: "Huge rock, this big! I mean, really, where could they have stashed it? Where?!"]
DON'T: Go past the Grand stop in that costume. Just don't.
DO: Take a big whiff of the smiley gas. DON'T: Ask what's in it. FunnyFace Gas: $5,000.
The LDS goes on missions to all kinds of foreign lands, but only their Constantine-like operatives who did Basic Training in hell get sent to North Williamsburg.
Everybody be cool! Especially with the Pulp Fiction costumes. That were everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
Jesus Saves! By not spending any money on booze at the Vice Party. Thrifty! Promotional appearance fee by Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: $10,000.
This guy spent the night crowdsourcing his Twitter followers to see which one of the four Boys II Men he should be at any given moment. #ShutUpNilla Vice paid this guy as Nu New Media Outreach. $1,000.00
Day of the Dead-eyes. The Vice party was like the Willa Wonka factory of drugs! The schnozzberries tasted like schnozzberries! Also: the wallpaper was lined with huffable glue. $4,000.00.
Not a scene out of George Romero's next flick. Welcome to the Port O' Potties of A Thousand Key Bumps. $5,000
DO: Fuckit.
Animal New York's Bucky Turco, who doesn't enjoy having his picture taken, while we try to goad him into his first real Glamour Shot. That said, he finally relented to show us his "good side." Talk about Photo Sense.
DON'T: Be that white guy dressed as Sam Jackson. Related: the possibility of a Post-penned headline when this guy gets his ass kicked on the J/M/Z tonight: SNAKES ON A TRAIN.
DO: Young chicks, Broregard. Get 'em while they're still teething. ON JESUS. Also, your Linda Blair-Exorcist fetish scenario with a cross is something you only get to indulge in one night a year, and it's not Easter. Bro with god, young conqueror.
These guys went down the rabbit hole. NO, EW, GROSS NOT LIKE THAT. I was talking about the Vice party. But the odds of him getting a pinky in his ass tonight are "likely." Str8 guys. What're you gonna do?
Yours truly with FameGame's Ryan Brown. What, you think I drank all that? Hell no. I backpacked a lifetime supply. I'm taking a bath in Schlitz right as I write this. $25,000.
Gawker Party Crash Photog Mo Pitz, Mission: Accomplished. Mo enjoys a very, very, very well-deserved cocktail for her brave efforts. Also, some Valium, given to her at the door. $5,000.
"Do you know what the fuck an Asparagus-Burger is, buddy? You know why? Because I buried it like I'm gonna bury you!" This Is Why You're Fat co-author Jessica Amason does research for her next Book Deal Book, This Is Why You're Not Getting Into The Vice Party. Chapter Six: Because you showed up. Security, w/Extra Unnecessary Anger Package: $50,000
Chapter Seven: Because you're still wondering how we got in and you didn't. What? It wouldn't be the Vice party without harassing those who couldn't make it, and the assholes who denied them. Damn the man, save the empire...
...Which would be these fuckin' guys.

Not long after his micro-budget debut Wrong Numbers hit at the 2001 South by Southwest film festival, Holdridge said he had fielded calls from every major studio looking to adapt his comedy about "unruly teens trying to buy beer for a party on their last night of high school" for Hollywood. Sony eventually hired him to write the script on spec, which apparently took a couple years too many for the studio's taste, as Holdridge discovered when he heard about a new Sony project called Superbad:

That was the last straw. As far as he could tell, Wrong Number had been co-opted by Judd Apatow and company.

"It was devastating," Holdridge recalls, hesitant to accuse any particular individual of ripping him off. "Their script was different. Our script was fucking awesome, but you can't copyright a concept." Holdridge suspects the executives at Sony may have suggested his idea to more established Hollywood comedic forces, but he places some of the blame in his own lap. "I have some responsibility because I went and made another movie," he says. "I don't want to complain. What if we just had the same idea?"

Yeah, what if? It's not like Midnight Kiss doesn't owe its own life to Before Sunrise/Sunset, Manhattan and a few other couples-gabbing-in-the-streets classics. And Apatow is the Comedy Person of the Year, after all. But as Holdridge alludes to in the profile, Wrong Numbers is illegal to screen since Sony picked it up seven years ago. We can't wait for the double feature when the time finally comes — and as much as we appreciate his discretion under the circumstances, we're fairly sure it will come.

[Photo: Getty Images]

• 'In Search of a Midnight Kiss' Director Alex Holdridge [indieWIRE]

Let me just put it out there right now that both Mr. Goldberg and I felt really out of place at this thing. First of all, even though I've lived in NYC for over 10 years, I know nothing about "society" beyond a couple of boldface names I've read in Page Six. Both of us were in jeans (all of the ladies were wearing dresses and we even saw one dude there in a tuxedo), and I'm pretty sure I was the only female who dared to eat anything off the cheese cube platters. Anyway, the only person I recognized in the crowd was Devora Rose, the Editor-in-Chief of some magazine I've never read, who appeared on an episode of The Fashionista Diaries and told one young woman that she should try not eating.

The show was playing on a large screen suspended from the ceiling so that people on both the first and second floors could see. Every time one of the wives would come on-screen, people would cheer in varying degrees. Countess LuAnn de Lesseps seemed to get the biggest response, which I guess means that she's either really popular or invited the most friends.

We made our way up to the second floor to see if we could find some of the cast. Goldberg noticed Alex McCord immediately, since she was wearing the $2,700 Roberto Cavalli dress that we watched her pick out in St. Barths — the one Simon said he could see her wearing to the Met. Not too long after, we saw her better half fetching a drink at the bar, in a Sgt. Pepper-y jacket he later told us he got from Burberry. Then we walked by the Countess, just as her housekeeper/right-hand man Rosanna popped up on the screen, and the Countess and her friends all yelled out, "Wooo! Rosanna!" We were standing next to her kids during a segment where she gives them a new puppy. They were really cute and talked about how good they think it came out.

After the show was over, a DJ started playing generic crowd pleasers ("Kiss," "Oh What A Night," Beyoncé) and housewife Ramona took to the dance floor immediately. Goldberg couldn't resist, and went out and joined her. Finally, after downing our drinks, we approached Simon, who was super nice (even though i kinda spilled his drink on his Burberry jacket). As soon as we got the footage we needed, I wanted to hightail it out of there, but Goldberg was like, "Oh, come on. We could get great stuff if we stay here and watch these people get really drunk." But the open bar was over, and I wasn't about to pay $15 for a drink, and I sure as shit wasn't about to observe drunk people while staying sober.

Earlier: Real Housewives Of New York: Fabulous Homes, Fabulous Vacations, Fabulous... Husbands?

Porochista's book, about a family of Iranian immigrants dealing with the aftermath of 9/11 in poignant and funny ways, is getting raves all over the damn place, which has Porochista sort of flummoxed. "I never expected this to happen to my little book. I almost cried the first time I saw it in a bookstore," she told us. She's not being false-modest, either: her book is published by indie stalwart Grove/Atlantic, which doesn't have the cash money to give a new title a Kunkelian marketing push and must instead rely on its authors to generate their own buzz.

However, some of the celebrities at the party last night didn't seem to quite know what they were celebrating. "This is a book party?" Ann Curry asked us when we interrupted her conversation to ask if we could get a picture. "And what are these pictures for?"

We told her.

"Gawker? What's that?"

She was told it was, uh, a media gossip blog.

"What does that mean?" asked Ann's friend Babs.

"Which part, 'media gossip' or 'blog?'"

"Media gossip," said Babs. "Like, does that mean you'll be gossiping about us tomorrow?"

I didn't even bother to hedge. "Uh, probably."

The afterparty was even more badass. We spent a lot of time talking to the models, who were all around twenty. The most voluble model was Dale Kim, who said he preferred to be described as "an entrepreneur of life" rather than a model. Later, we overheard him asking one of the other models who he was with (meaning: representationwise) and what his next big project was.

None of the models got paid except in clothes, but they did get to take home goodie bags full of men's products, such as Mensgroom brand male grooming paste. There was also a little packet of samples from a brand called John Allan's. They were accompanied by a brochure with the John Allan's tagline: "Reality. Commitment. Balance." As if you are going to marry them or something.

The only drinks at the show were Budweiser Select and Fiji water, and the only eats were platterfuls of edamame and mini Rice Krispie treats being passed in pizza boxes. The free things situation was slightly better at the afterparty at Bar Martignetti. Downstairs, the hoi polloi (models included!) were treated to an open bar. Well, the vodka was free. Everything else, you had to pay for.

Upstairs, though, Kristian held court with his inner circle, and the food was free if you ate it off the rich people's plates. Lesser Known Better Connected blogger Gregory Littley was there, as was Social Life magazine EIC Devorah Rose. Socialite reporter Peter Davis's insanely hot boyfriend Paul Johnson-Calderone—but we thought he hated Kristian?—ate frites alongside teen soap star Leven Rambin, who took a sip of a champagne and ginger cocktail ("Her first sip of alcohol ever!" Paul claimed) and pronounced it nasty.

Kristian ordered steak frites. As I left, he offered me a bite of his steak. I ate it, so I guess this means we are friends now. The steak was pretty tasty.

So if you're a good artfag like me, I'm sure you know all about Bruce Benderson, right? Basically he is a legendarily obstreperous Euro-style queen/writer who kind of wishes we could all go back in the closet, because the sex was so much hotter at the Stonewall, back when pesky gay liberation had yet to come in the way of a sweaty, unmentionable backroom fuck. Way to depress everyone under fifty, but unfortunately, BOI may have a point. At Bruce's birthday celebration at Home Sweet Home on Friday, the vibe was decidedly UN self-hating. And really, most of the people at this party should hate themselves at least a little bit. I'm just saying. Just a LITTLE. (If you were competing in the unofficial WHOSE WRESTLING SINGLET IS MOST OUTRAGEOUS contest, this means you!)

According to Mr. Benderson, one reason the olden days were better, other than the sexy repressiveness, is because, "When you had a birthday party, the people who came brought you PRESENTS and actually KNEW WHO YOU WERE. Tonight, they wouldn't let me in the door— even AFTER I took off my sparkly red feather wig!" Aw, Bruce! What the fuck?! But I totally know what he meant. When cornered for an "interview," the actor-cum-musician-cum-gogo boy who broke up my last relationship (sorry again about that night, Frank!) had NO idea who I was. "Didn't you used to have blond hair?" he asked me. Well... NO! But sometimes you want to go where everybody bitchily pretends to forget your name.

Or maybe you want to go where everybody will give you a rimjob! It was sadly unclear whether this was THAT kind of party or not. Ok, true there were naked dudes literally dangling from the ceiling, but otherwise the usual post-millennial stench of anodyne sexuality was totally in the air. Maybe it was just the sweat mixed with Viktor + Rolf Flowerbomb, but still. I'm not trying to be an asshole about this party, because it was just as fun or more fun than any other homosexual night on the town, and I myself was acting like an insipid spaz, which certainly didn't add anything. But between Bruce Benderson and the "sponsoring" magazine— the seminal gay Nancy Friday-style porno zine STRAIGHT TO HELL— it was hard not to be nostalgic for the days when no one was trying to have a conversation. At a certain point, any redblooded gay must ask himself: if I'm not getting a BJ, why am I here?

Oh, right: it's to see the same ten guys I see at the Metropolitan every Sunday, plus fag artistes Terrence Koh and Ryan McGinley and Kiki and Herb chanteuse Justin Bond. Time to wrap this up so I can get back to ManHunt!

Do we care? Fat white Jews have been responsible for some of the best rhymes of the 20th century: Gershwin, Lieber, Stoller, Matisyahu.

Still, we asked Gabe. He became cagey. "I never worked in the music industry," he said, using more air quotes than one would in little bunny Foo Foo. Later when we asked his editor Kerri Kolen, she similarly clammed up. "I can't say anything about that."

We went to the book to cross-reference some rhymes, appropriately reformatted:

I'm stoned and I'm spinin' and the chronic got me feelin'
Like I"m Lionel fuckin' Richie and I'm dancin' on the ceilin'

I'm a fat little cracker from the suburbs of New York,
and even though I'm fuckin' Jewish I still eat a lotta pork

I got a large circulation for my freestyle rhymes,
Plus I'm white and well-read like the New York Times

Jeffrey Toobin, however, most recently author of The Nine: Inside the Secret World of the Supreme Court was one of the first guests. "This is the only party I've been invited to," he said and shrugged. Asked who he thought a good Supreme Court justice might be, he said, "Barack Obama. You heard it here first." Then he went to sit between the Times' Motoko Rich and, guess who, the Post's Keith Kelly.

Nearby Karen Holt, Deputy Editor of Publisher's Weekly, was chatting to Doubleday PRbot Alison Rich about the surfeit of parties she'd be attending. "The Workman party is gonna be a BBQ and Google's party is supposed to be catered by Blue Smoke. I'm the only woman who eats at parties," she said. "That's why I work at PW."

Behind her, "Brooklyn author," as she is frequently billed, Kate Christensen stood talking to some dude with a goatee, a brown suit and brown Chuck Taylors about the Iowa Writer's Workshop. Ms. Christensen, it must be said, is cute and she lives in Greenpoint. She used to live in Williamsburg, but when she turned 40, she thought, "I"m too old to be living off the L. Better to live off the G—G for Geriatric." What, she's already turned 40? And here's to you Mrs. Christensen.

And then Tina Brown walked in. How much like Princess Di is she? "Well let's just say, if I had legs like hers I'd be wearing skirts that get shorter and shorter—not longer and longer," she said. The skirt of her tan suit fell just above the knee. "Plus," she said, "I've never perfected my sidelong glance." We pressed on. "C'mon, TB, show it to us!" She did. Her saucer eyes glistened in the weird light reflected off the Richard Serra sculpture in the nearby courtyard. She gave a little regal wave and drifted off.

When we walked into the Box, John Waters was doing some gentle stand-up which, for him, includes many mentions of glory holes and butt sex. Jaded as we are, to walk into a bar and see John Waters is always very, very exciting. In the banquets, assorted wealthy patrons drank champagne. I tripped over some woman's wheelchair, something I'd do throughout the night. Waters introduced DJ Spooky, showed some videos from a film he made sure to mention a few times; it was about the KKK and he will be screening it at Ground Zero. Later, as we chatted with Spooky, a girl came around giving away his CD and offered him one. He said, "I am DJ Spooky" and then tried to convince the girl that she should pick up a copy of the album she was holding 30 copies of. "It's really really good," he said. "Are you into graphic design?" This drew a hesitant yes from the girl. "Yeah, you like the cover? It's really good. It's a pun."

Back on stage, Mikhail Baryshnikov was introducing an excerpt from the Wooster Group's La Didone. Baryshnikov makes us overcome: Not for Sex and the City but for the 11 pirouettes he does in White Nights. That shit is bananas. But then he left the stage and two opera performers dressed as spacemen entered.This heralded the beginning of a shitty feeling we'd carry with us all night. As they warbled the libretto, it occurred to us the avant garde was all a sham. What does it matter that these two were performing an opera dressed in a space outfits. Is that experimental or just weird? Does this tangle of supposed intended allusions and references carry any meaning? or is it just the right amount of excess, abstraction and incomprehensibility to lull and intimidate the viewer into declaiming the thing as "genius" with a lispy "s" on the end.

A "cooking" show by The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black in which a bloody vagina, body paint and a pot figured heavily did nothing to help the case. I guess there was some comment on gender issues. I like boobs, so there was that. I asked the guy behind me what it was about. He said, "I think it was about sexuality." Even Michael Stipe, the man who wrote Losing My Religion, had no takeaway. "I thought it was hysterical but I didn't come away with any lesson."

So, if it kinda sucked here, at least artistically, was there hope anywhere else? We decided to ask the attendees.

Nigel Barker, America's Next Top Model, judge: "I think the avant garde is too unknown and too underground. I wish it was more accessible, like Monty Python."

Richard Kimmel, Exec Dir. of the Box: "The avant garde needs more beer. That's what's happening at the Box."

John Helfst, "friend of the board": "It needs more tits."

Dominique Bousquet, choreographer: "O Brother."

Ludwig Kuttner and Beatrix Ost-Kuttner, Trillionaires: "It's alive and kicking."

DJ Spooky: "I could be a fiction. I know Nick Denton."

John Waters: "The Wooster Group is a terrorist organization. The best art is made by terrorists." —Josh

In this very special prose edition of Team Party Crash, we hand the monologue over to Gridskipper editor Joshua David Stein. He'll walk you through the joys of last night's launch of Culture + Travel magazine, another controlled-circulation periodical for old rich folk from LTB Media. Josh was too embarrassed to bring his monocle (or his camera), so he had trouble fitting in amongst the wealthy elite. Nevertheless, those with money and those who loved money flocked to LTB Media owner Louise MacBain's penthouse for a lovely spread of hors d'ouvres and energetic media glad-handing. Our man's account begins below.

Culture + Travel launched onto the battlefield of increasing obsolescence last night. Never one to say no to foie gras canapes and the chance to discreetly brush up against Malcolm Gladwell's voluminous hair (his girlfriendo has even adopted the trademark 'fro), we tagged along with He From Whose Loins We Sprungeth, Nick Denton. Fulsome and photo-free micro report after the jump.

The party was held on the 16th floor of the glass-and-problem Richard Meier building on Charles Street. Perhaps the cruelest yet most telling moment came as we were walking into the lobby. In front of us, three elderly socialites were making their geriatric way inside when one of them stumbled and sprawled over an unseen step. We youthful bloggers artfully dodged past them and into the building.

After a bit of reconnoitering, we landed on the outside balcony pouring Chandon and talking to the Golem-esque James Truman, LTB's CEO and managing editor. It was his big night, so we felt bad informing him that print media is dead. PR Athena Nadine Johnson meanwhile resembles a Nico that lived longer and smoked more. Johnson looked over the edge of the tower, pointed to Calvin Klein's home (as yet uninhabited), then told me about the NBC series Heroes for a very long time.

Charlie Rose showed up because, let's face it, what else does he have going on in his life right now? Gladwell showed up giddy and left early, some svelte gamine on his arm, and I talked to Jaime Johnson of Born Rich about our classes together at NYU (on women in the Renaissance). Anthony Haden-Guest stopped by and was quite upset about the eBay's lack of accountability. Catherine Maladrino was there, and I barely suppressed the urge to thank her for sending Angela home and telling Kayne he looked ridiculous. By far the best moment was talking to the New York Daily News' Ben Widdicombe about polari — 1950s British gay slang — a subject Mr. Widdicombe knows well.

Ever since the MisShapes party vamoosed, downtown hellmouth Luke & Leroy has been strugglin' a little. Its Saturday-night MisShapes party replacement, Rated X, goes straight for the gonads with enthusiastic amateur nudity. The hipsters are still drawn in droves, MisShapes or no; many probably haven't even noticed the change in party management. Except that they take their clothes off a lot. For money. Unfortunate Gawker videographer Richard Blakeley recorded the hoopla surrounding their most recent (and highly debatable) "Best Body" contest. Top prize went to a twee young male carrying neither body fat nor shame, while the gal Richard brought to the gala went to his roommate after one drink. Drama! Oh yes, did we mention the boobies? They're there. The clip's NSFW, if you haven't figured that out yet.

The thing that is kind of confusing about everybody turning out for the VMAs and VMA-related events is that MTV is not that cool anymore. Sure, we like The Hills as much as anybody, but it's not like The Hills would look that out of place on the WB (CW, whatever, fuck you). They don't ever actually show music videos anymore, and if they do show a music video it's for, like, the fucking All-American Rejects. They gave us Carson Daly. THEY GAVE US CARSON DALY. It's like, how much more do they have to piss in our eyes before we finally call it quits?

What's that? Open bar? Okay, now we get it.

After the jump, Gawker's Nikola Tamindzic takes pictures of dogs dressed up like clowns, just like William Wegman.

Nikola's full gallery available here.

Sometimes you really want to make an ENTRANCE!, and sometimes you just want to make a fucking entrance already.

Gawker mascot Andrew Krucoff and Dealbreaker mascot John Carney talk f2f without the calming salve of an electronic intermediary. AWKWARD!

Remember when J. Lo wore that scandalous green dress to the VMAs a few years back? Remember when apparently K-Mart started making a knock-off version of it? Remember when this boring girl wore that?

No, no one has ever told me I look like a tiny Willem Defoe standing between the Munsters and Boy, Interrupted before.

Oops, wrong wedding.

The New York Daily News's Ben Widdicombe, perfectly content to raise the median age in a room by half.

"Psst, here's a secret: we're old."

Greg K. (the Other Dude) knows Anthony Kiedis and the Vampire LeStat personally. But he just calls them "dads."

Jade from America's Next Top Model (left). Woman from America's Next Top Macy Gray Called and She Wants Her Hair Back, but You Can Keep the Face (right).

We love ANIMAL's Bucky Turco, in no small part because he's the only guy in the world who watched King of Queens and thought "that look is tiiiight!"

Cougar Force! Unite!

James Iha. Queen of Narnia.

The grim reaper still not sure if she should collect the soul of the girl in the hideous vest. The girl in blue oblivious to everything as usual.

Last Night's Party's Merlin Bronques at last night's party with tomorrow morning's regretted hook-up.

This guy should have his torso removed.

It's a fine line between that coy little look that says "I'm cute and interesting" and that coy little look that says "I'm trashed and easy." Unless you're double-fucking-fisting it. Then there is no line, it's just let's go back to your place, Drunky McSluterson.

We love us some Andrew Ross Sorkin, and his DealBook blog is always a pleasure to read, so we were particularly thrilled to see "Trader's Night Out," the Times' foray into party crash coverage. It's a tough question as to whose subjects are douchier, ours or theirs, but either way, it's a big enough table and everyone's welcome. We just hope they develop a version of Blue States Lose soon.

Oh, right.

Trader's Night Out [NYT]

Last night News gossip Ben Widdicombe and T (the NYT Style book) bigwig Horacio Silva threw a little party at Silva's charming apartment. The soiree was in honor of Lee Tulloch, whose Fabulous Nobodies is being republished on its twentieth anniversary. We dispatched Intern Neel, whose coverage follows, along with the fine work of Gawker lensman Nikola Tamindzic.

In our infinite wisdom, we showed up already intoxicated and way late. So late, in fact, that we got there just as everyone else was on their way out, though we'd like to think that was more random happenstance than cause-effect. Thankfully, we can extrapolate with 99% certainty what went on in the hours preceding our arrival using a top-secret Media Party Template we had mocked up specifically for situations like this:

1) Lots of drinking
2) Lots of idle chit-chat
3) Lots of discussing where everyone's going next

Rush and Molloy graduate Chris Rovzar stuck around just long enough to tell us he's quite excited about his upcoming Fulbright scholarship, in which he'll be studying gay marriages in Madrid (fear not, New York queens: the Daily News is keeping a spot for him when he gets back). Radar's Jeff Bercovici stuck around just long enough to tell us he was leaving. Gatecrasher and party co-host Ben Widdicombe stuck around to ply us with red wine.

Sufficiently plied, we asked Ms. Tulloch, the woman of the hour, whether she suffered any guilt over indirectly paving the way for the Weisbergers of the world. "Well," she said carefully, "at least it gives you something to do on the beach." That's one way to spin it.

Chris Rovzar and unidentified female

Jo Piazza and Mariana Nolan

Heather Lylas and Mark Ellwood

Troy and Ann Shocket

Ben Crawford and Lee Carter

Corynne Steindler and Jeff Bercovici

Miguel Enamorado and Corinna Stringer

Yana Kamps and Cator Sparks and unidentified female

Cator Sparks and unidentified female

Prabal Gurung, Damien Nunes and Hanuk

Prabal, Damien, Hanuk and Yana

David Hauslaib

Lee Carter, Horacio Silva and unidentified female

Lolita Amos

Jo Piazza

Cator Sparks and Chris Rovzar

Lee Tulloch

Ben Widdicombe and Horacio Silva

Yana Kamps & Damien Nunes

It's a rare party when Obviously Drunk Guy #1 tells you he'd like nothing more than to "beat the ever-living shit" out of Obviously Drunk Guy #2, and then walk over to ODG#2, standing less than 20 feet away from ODG#1, and have him tell you that yeah, the feeling's mutual, but even though ODG#1 is a "fucking racist, anti-Semite piece of shit," he's not worth getting a felony arrest over — but sometimes God throws you a bone and makes an otherwise tedious exercise in wanton media pomposity that much more tolerable. We were thus blessed last night at Soho House, where the strange trio of Euan Rellie, Jared Paul Stern, and Nick Denton hosted a party for Vanity Fair-bashing memoirist Toby Young's second book, The Sound of No Hands Clapping. After the jump, Gawker poolboy Neel Shah and staff pornographer Nikola Tamindzic report.

Nikola's full gallery from the event is available here.

Toby Young with fellow import Jasmine Dellal. Yes, this was actually his party. Who knew.

Jared Paul Stern and superagent John Brockman, who would prefer if you called him Mickey Kaus or Matt Drudge.

The usual suspects from print and interweb land were all in attendance, their hobnobbing pirouettes around SoHo House's library room fueled by orange and lime margaritas. Some were dressed well (Jared Paul Stern, a Skull and Bones tie framing an old Polo seersucker suit); some were dressed poorly (man of the hour Toby Young, looking frumpy in beat-up Converses and baggy jeans); a number had really terrible teeth (countless ex-pat Brits).

Remy Stern, amNY's Julia Allison and the BBC's Matt Wells: They know about Remy's super secret project, and now he'll have to kill them.

Daily News gossip Ben Widdicombe and director Whit Stillman commiserate over the pains of spontaneous lactation.

Tom Sykes expresses his desire to hang ten with George Gurley.

Young put on his typical "How courageous of you to show up in support of me!" shtick, telling everyone who asked that he owes all his "success" to his darling (and far more attractive) wife. The British Consulate-General to New York gave a speech that everyone stopped listening to after the fourth bombed joke ("Unfortunately, Graydon Carter couldn't be here tonight...he was too busy removing the gum from his shoe." Ah, that sardonic Anglo wit). Christina Huffington proved mother Arianna to be a far hipper parent than Lloyd Grove—she seemed super excited about her unpaid internship at Vanity Fair, while Grove spawn Julian seemed decidedly less so about his summer gig waiting tables and scooping ice cream in Maryland. (Papa says he's doing this to save up money before heading to Johns Hopkins this fall. C'mon, Lloyd—you should've put that Yalie legacy to better use than that).

Christina Huffington and Julian Grove so totally made out by the pool.

Lloyd Grove and Greg Lindsay compete for the Creepiest Smile award.

Times reporter Warren St. John desperately looks for someone to talk about sports with him.

Ian Spiegelman and Jared Paul Stern: two disgraced peas in a pod!

The open bar soon closed, the herd migrated to the roof to continue the mutual masturabation. Radar's deputy editor Chris Tennant swears on Yusef Jackson's deep pockets that the latest re-incarnation of the mag is here to stay. Two nubile young PR things were overheard making googly eyes at the Times' Warren St. John and Nick Confessore from afar. Anthony Hayden-Guest was seen, well, wasted.

Anthony Haden-Guest killed his liver; Bruno Maddox killed Spy.

FishbowlNY's Dylan Stableford desperately tries to score a mention in Julia Allison's dating column.

Team Random: Opinionista Melissa Lafsky, host Euan Rellie, Eat the Press' Rachel Sklar and Leanne Fremar, sister of Leslie Fremar — who we love for not putting up with Lauren Weisberger's whiney bullshit.

Someone British looking (c'mon, it's obvious), Toby Young, and Out EIC Aaron Hicklin. Jolly bloody good fun or whatever.

DeVry Prom Court: Daily Newser Jo Piazza, Sunshine flack Jesse Derris, Timesman Nick Confessore and Us Weekly's Noelle Hancock.

Lucy Sykes would give you her entire collection of Louboutins if you'd just get that dude out of her face.

Ian Spiegelman proposes a toast to Chris Tennant's boob sweat.

More drinks, hazier notes. After a cluster of people immediately start talking shit about a "friend" of theirs who just departed the circle, we decide it's time to depart. Free booze aside, we knew there was a reason we hated these things. And so we left not the pretty people, but the people who think they're pretty.

Team Party Trashed: King Dork [Young Manhattanite]

Having your website's launch party over two months after the site's actual launch is a rather smart idea: unlike the awkward, speculative small talk of a normal launch party, conversations at a delayed launch party don't even have to address the actual website — it's already out there, it's doing whatever it's doing, and rather than talk about geeky web stuff, you can focus your energies on determining whether or not Richard Johnson is going to drive himself home from the party.

Such was the case at last night's celebration of Dealbreaker, the Wall Street gossip blog from founding Gawker editor Elizabeth Spiers. Hoping to find ourselves a sugar daddy, we grabbed Gawker paparazzo Nikola Tamindzic headed uptown to the impossibly stuffy 21 Club, where bankers and lawn jockeys run free. After the jump, Charlie Rose, Michael Woff, media whores aplenty and more power suits then anyone should ever have to look at.

Nikola's full gallery from the event available is available here.

They're smiling now, but after making a scotch-fuelled pass at Michael Wolff's daughter Elizabeth, Ian Spiegelman ran over to the nearest web cafe and fired off a threatening, hate-filled email to them both.

Now that he's sober, writer Seth Mnookin must find other ways to entertain himself. Like acting as a human PSA against drugs.

Apartment therapist and Fortune writer Oliver Ryan will spend the rest of the evening explaining the importance of Scandinavian ottoman design to Ogilvy's Daniel Mauser and Warrie Price, who runs the Conservancy for Battery Park. The girl on the left already wants to kill herself.

On the left, JP Morgan's Warfield Price pouts upon learning that he's not the only "Warrie Price" at the party.

Billion-dollar book boy Dana Vachon gets visibly uncomfortable when Times Arts & Leisure dominatrix Ariel Kaminer suggests they do some "close edits" on his next piece.

The only difference between lawyers and bankers is the magnitude of their shit-eating grins. (Exhibit A: Lawyer.)

While ICM blogger-book agent Kate Lee snuggles the camera, Paula Froelich looks back at it as it takes her from behind.

Dealbreaker's John Carney (center) desperately tries to learn a thing or two from Times business reporter and Dealbook blogger Andrew Ross Sorkin and CNBC's Charlie Gasparino.

Mediabistro's Laurel Touby gets so hot when The Week president and Dealbreaker investor Justin Smith shoves her boa down his pants.

Seeing Clare McAdams (n e Maccers) reminds us that there's another difference between bankers and lawyers: lawyers sometimes have vaginas.

Asset International COO Nick Platt (brother of Oliver) is disgusted to learn that you don't even pull in six figures.

Details' Allison Mohney looks to be enjoying herself but in the meantime, much like us, this waiter's misery mostly comes from having to serve Gawker Media managing editor Lockhart Steele.

Spiers relishes being the center of attention. It's hard to tell, but she's positively eating up the spotlight. If you look closely, you can see that she's positively jubilant.

Vintage/Anchor flack Sloane Crosley is thrilled to learn that Oliver Ryan has never heard of James Frey.

After getting lost in his Eat the Press sandwich, WWD media-stalker Jeff Bercovici was never seen again.

Once he finishes this drink, Ian Spiegelman will gladly stab you in the belly and pull your guts out and rub 'em all over your bald head.

Logicworks CEO (and Dealbreaker investor) Carter Burden demonstrates the short-arm toast. Let's just say that Secret isn't strong enough for a man.

After watching him excitedly mount Gawker mascot Andrew Krucoff, we're not so sure Cookie online editor Peter Feld should be anywhere near a kiddie mag.

There's a metaphor in here somewhere.

The only difference between Nick Denton and Seth Mnookin is that Denton hasn't yet conquered his smack habit.

New York mag's Carl Swanson and Jared Hohlt are enthralled as Spiers launches into the 8th minute of her diatribe on the nuances of Movable Type.

Now that Charlie Rose has adapted to his new baboon heart, he can return to doing what he loves — WWD's Sara James.

It took four hours for HuffPo press-eater Rachel Sklar to realize that she was talking to the Post's Braden Keil and not the guy from Will & Grace.

TheLadders' Michael Shafrir amd DeWayne Martin refuse to stand any closer to each other. They're not, like, gay, dude.

Institutional Investor's Jonathan Keehner wishes his father, Michael, would just back off and respect him as an adult. "Dammit, old man..."

Nick Confessore and Noelle Hancock were voted "cutest couple" in the Sylvan Learning Center 2005 yearbook.

[NB: Page Six editor Richard Johnson was present and seen standing next to the bar. Nikola made the mistake of asking before he took a picture (such a fireable offense!), and Richard declined. We can't confirm what was in his glass, but we did see him drop off his keys in the key bowl by the door before skipping his way inside, screaming about togas.]

Nikola's full gallery from the event is available here.

Last night at G-Spa, imported socialite Euan Rellie and Page Six's Paula Froelich hosted a soiree in celebration of former Post columnist Bridget Harrison's memoir, Tabloid Love. (Which reminds us: hurry, ink-stained wretches, and get your gossipy memoir/roman-a-clef/novels published before Gossip Novel Month draws to a close.) Located in the basement of the Gansevoort, G-Spa is like a fancy locker room, except that rather than disinfect bacteria, the stench of chlorine is supposed to encourage an aura of exclusivity. Luckily for Bridget, it seems that everyone got just wasted enough to not mind one bit. After the jump, Gawker pornographer Nikola Tamindzic surveys the wreckage.

Harrison is British, and her parents (center, right) came all the way over here to celebrate. The pints help ease the Christian guilt of reading about your daughter's sex life.

Nichelle Newsletter (center) never met an open bar she didn't like, and the BBC's Matt Wells knows he's in over his head.

The G-Spa staff dresses appropriately for the venue; for an extra $5, she'll give you a happy ending.

Paula Froelich, Stepford wife.

Euan Rellie mistakes WWD's Elisa Lipsky-Karasz for his wife, Lucy Sykes.

Anne Maffei and Lucy Sykes (Euan's wife) really don't seem to mind.

Now that Remy Stern has told Deborah Moss, formerly of Life & Style, about his super-duper top-secret project that may or may not involve Radar, he has to kill her.

A Post editor, the Times' Nick Confessore and Daily News gossip kitten Jo Piazza discuss whose paper has sent the most writers to Turkey.

AM New York columnist Julia Allison decides that Justin Silverman will replace Lloyd Grove as her new walker.

Us Weekly's Noelle Hancock and Jo Piazza haven't quite nailed the sexy lesbian pose. Two more drinks, girls.

Thinks she's at Buddakan.

Bridget demonstrates how best to sell books.

Elizabeth Spiers will sink another drink, because it'll give her time to think, and if she had the chance she'd ask the world to dance...

Jamie-Lynn Sigler pretends to read, just for Bridget's sake.

"Wait — my daughter's not a virgin?!"

Upon leaving G-Spa, the real party begins. Ahoy, boys.