She entertains visitors from Chicago. She attends White House dinners and concerts hosted by her daughter, the first lady, Michelle Obama. She dines at local restaurants and delights in events at the Kennedy Center, where she often sits in the president's box and chats with performers.

The Obamas rely on grandma to raise their kids, because the liberal feminist revolution means Michelle works all day, even now, when she doesn't even actually have a job. But now grandma's leading a life of luxury and privilege, attending the theater instead of performing her familial duties, so the Obamas have actually been forced to hire help to watch their little latchkey kids, on at least one occasion.

This is the life they want for your children, America! Watch out for the reeducation camps!

Thanks to hero intern Bette Bentley for compiling this wonderful video of America's Drunkest Former Nixon Staffer Journalist mumbling things about children and boots.

CORRECTION, JESUS: Diane Sawyer did not attend a single ball! She was up all night reporting. So they just had her on GMA after a full 24 hours of being on television despite the fact that no news actually happened yesterday, or this morning. It was a sick Jackass-style stunt of some kind we think?

Allen Salkin, the New York Times reporter who always manages to snag the great stories about the city's most annoying people, takes a look at the plans by Sevigny and friends—who currently run the Beatrice Inn—to whip up buzz for an instantly cool replica of an exclusive hotel and nightspot in Atlantic City, a town whose economy now rests on the arthritic shoulders of grandmothers feeding quarters into slot machines. And petty drug dealers.

The "Chelsea Hotel," described by the developer as "Soho House-y" is a bid to transport downtown chic wholesale into AC, simply by hiring the "right" people like celebrity family member Sevigny. No longer is it necessary to actually create something worthy of being deemed cool; such a designation is now for sale by HIP young tastemakers.

Will the doormen turn away people deemed unhip based on their clothes, haircuts or demeanor, just as Angelo, the doorman at the Beatrice in Greenwich Village, does nightly?

"We hope so," Mr. Bashaw [the developer] said

A spokeswoman goes on to describe Paul Sevigny's role in this whole thing:

"They are going to be in charge of celebrity wrangling, including bringing Paul's sister's friends down," Ms. Odegard said. "At the Beatrice, it was Heath Ledger before he died, Adrian Grenier, Mary-Kate and Ashley and everyone who walks in from the Waverly Inn."

Well, we look forward to many entertaining calls to the EMT's in the near future! Salkin's disdain for this shitty idea comes through pretty clearly in the article, and at the end, it's revealed why:

Some authentic Manhattan experiences might best be shipped free of charge to Atlantic City. Like the experience of being rejected by a dead-eyed doorman muttering, "Sorry, private party tonight," which is what happened to this reporter as he approached the Beatrice Inn on Wednesday evening wearing a bulky orange parka appropriate to the freezing weather.

Moments later, a shivering couple in sheer but stylish clothes was ushered inside without a question.

Don't worry, man. At least you didn't catch a chill.

We sat at the press table (number 24) next to InStyle's Katrina Szish and her WASPily handsome beau Brant Stead. He has a tattoo of a skull and crossbones on his wrist! At table 25 next to us, we spotted Post dating columnist Mandy Stadtmiller. She was dateless. Next to her towering blond head was the towering black coiffure of Atoosa Rubenstein, Alpha Kitty.

Atoosa looks like a cross between Paul Bunyan and Bettie Page.

There was some tension at the table. Someone, Atoosa told us, had tried to be her friend on Facebook but was rejected. "I'm not using Facebook like other people," she said. "For me, it's only a social thing for people I've met and actually like."

Back at our table, two executives from Fairfield, Connecticut's public radio station (WSHU) were poo-pooing the fundraising techniques of WNYC.

Malcolm Gladwell's hair was somewhat less vivaciously upward than normal. He was nervous for the storytelling duel with Gopnik. We asked him about his blog and sometimes lack thereof.

"Well, I've been busy for the past year writing my next book so I haven't had the time, but now the manuscript is finished, so I'll be doing some more," he promised.

Asked by a companion whether it would ever be Livejournaly, Gladwell said, "It wouldn't be very interesting. 'I had a sandwich. I had a sandwich again.'" Fair enough!

So how did Garrison Keillor feel about being the first recipient of the Moth Award? "They want to start low and work up," he said. "It's the principle of show business."

And who did he like in the Gopnik v. Gladwell bout?

"Gopnik. I always go for the short man. It's the American way," he said.

Really? But Gladwell is such a fiesty thinker!

"He's not one of us," said Keillor. We presume he meant his UK-Canadianness. "He sounds like a character out of a Jane Austen novel."

Just at that moment, some goat cheese flew out of his mouth and landed on my hand. I tried to shake hands in a way that transferred the cheese back to its rightful owner but it didn't work out.

On stage, novelist Meg Wolitzer and Gopnick made jokes about Gladwell.

Meg: "They're making a movie of 'Blink.' Exterior Shot. Man blinks. Woman blinks. Both blink furiously as we fade out." Gopnik: "It's a short."

The moment came. Gladwell reprised a story of his about how he and William Booth had competed to work the phrase "perverse and often baffling" into the Washington Post. Gopnik went the Neal Pollack-daddyblogger route, telling a story of text message miscommunications with his son. Gopnik misinterprets LOL to mean "Lots of Love" and thusly uses it liberally during family crises. For example, "I hrd ur dad died. LOL" LOL, also LOL!

Andy Borowitz judged via applause meter, a method as reliable as a Diebold voting machine, and so the duel ended in a draw. Predicting such an outcome, the Moth had preordered two red sashes. "That way," said a Moth functionary later, "it kept us from any awkward situations with two of our favorite writers."