New York Times reporter and recovery memoirist David Carr brought up the afternoon's faux pas: I had impulsively Facebook-friended him without, um, meeting him before. "I hovered over your picture for a moment," he rasped. "I thought, 'She seems nice!" He seized me by the shoulders. "Are you going to ass-fuck me, though? You really can't tell."

Carr's close personal friend in sobriety, actor Tom Arnold, said he just loved fameballs like Julia Allison. Really? "Yes!" Why would an actual celebrity care about fake famous people? "Their stories are well-written... Do you like them? Do you hate them? I can't tell. I see you guys trying out other people, seeing how they'll play." Fameball tryouts! He hugged me.

Observer roustabout George Gurley was lamenting his one-month-and-counting ban from celeb coke den Beatrice Inn, from which he was barred after his affectionate piece about the West Village bar ran in Fashion Week Daily. He's been "so much more productive" during his shutout. Kirsten Dunst probably hasn't, though, as they let her in the door quite often.

Dating columnist Julia Allison refuted dating rumors in legalese: "I'm technically single." Also: "I am hiring a publicist as soon as I get the money." But doesn't Web 2.0 allow everyone the freedom to be their own publicist? "As we've seen, that doesn't always work so well."

There is a thing as too much freedom.

Click for the gallery slideshow by Nikola Tamindzic/Home of the Vain:

Click for the slideshow.

OK, so I didn't do any reporting—or embed with a team, as was offered—because my heels were too high and my feet hurt. (When Clay Felker said that women make the best reporters, he meant that they make the best reporters if they are wearing sensible shoes.) But the New York Press did!

“Nah, she’s not my date bro, just some chick. I was voted biggest flirt two years in a row, and I was the second-rated pole jumper in all of New York State,” the preacher’s animus, dressed all in black and flipping his H&M fedora, explained.

“Second in the state bro,” a far more offensive character and teammate, CK Sweat, chimed in at full throttle. There was no stopping him, “fabulous is the only word for me—tight Gaultier jeans, tuxedo scarf and granny glasses, I haven’t seen anyone better dressed tonight.” Okay, what makes you a hipster, CK? “First of all, I’m too much of a jock to be a hipster. Being in the top 2% of athletes excludes me from that category, but I can thrive anywhere.”

The closest I got to a slow dance was when the burly Polish bouncer felt me up without permission. So in that respect it was exactly like high school prom!

Until next season...

[Photo: Lyndsey Matthews's Flickr]

The subway ride was a level of hell I have not recently experienced on the MTA. An exhausted-looking man with three kids sat across from me the entire ride, alternately changing his shabbily-clad childrens' diapers and barking at them to "Shut the fuck up!" I kept hoping he would get off at the next stop, but he didn't: of course, he was going to Coney Island.

When the train pulled into the Surf Avenue station, bloodcurdling screams went up from the 9 to 12-year-olds on board. "Last day!" they cried, running towards the door. Mami already needed a beer.

The Astroland environment immediately transformed every child into a whirling, shrieking wraith. Everything was as it should be: a woman on the boardwalk sold jewelry and a pile of worn-looking panties off a table, four for $10. The the games, rides—which may be sold to the Middle East when all this is over—and shooting ranges were popping.

There were assorted camera crews there to document the park's probable death, as well as many lone white dudes with cameras. Maybe they all had photoblogs.

So, WTF was going on? I asked the man who manned the "Shoot Em Win" booth on Surf Avenue, near Astroland's gaping maw.

"It's going to hurt a lot of people. It's going to hurt a lot of working people," said Mike, who has worked this booth for "a lotta years." The Daily News reported Astroland as employing 75 year-round workers and 275 seasonal ones.

"Two shots, five bucks, win a stuffed animal," he told a young boy who approached the stand. The kid was dragged off by his older brother, who told him, "Don't spend that ten, boo." Mike isn't sure if Shoot Em Win will return next year—it's all up in the air.

So was it really closing? I asked the Black Scorpion, a Texas gentleman who had just performed as part of the Circus Sideshow—which will not close, as Coney Island USA own the building. His act involved tying his shoelaces with his so-called "lobster hands"—he was born with only three fingers on each one. "Looks that way," he sighed. People were lining up for a "Future of Coney Island" peep show in which we peered into dioramas that depicted what Coney Island might look like post-rezoning. It was not pretty.

So was Astroland gone for good? Probably. Maybe. Nobody quite knew, not even the park's employees. Your answer depends on how much of a cynic you are. Like the game where you squirt water into a ceramic clown's mouth, it's all just a crapshoot anyway.

I tried to win a dirty stuffed clownfish from the Claw machine, and lost two quarters.

[Photo: ElissaSCA's Flickr]

Sooooooooooooooo. Went to the Fifth Avenue Fameball Fake Friends Soirée last night, my expectations just a tad lower than my ostensible hostesses’ necklines. The IMI Club turned out to be a cushy, slightly Deco space atop 745 Fifth Avenue , the thoroughly Deco hulk overlooking Bergdorf’s. Met at the elevator with a gent bearing cocktails; the spread of sushi and cheese was ample, yet tasteful, and ornamented with lovely bouquets of flowers. The President, Vice-President and Director Emeritus of the Lemoncake Stupid Society were all there, faming away. Or I think they were, as I don’t really know Mary and Meghan from a hole in the ground. JA, on the other hand, fills a room with steaming heaps of charisma. She is surprisingly petite for a person I had always imagined to be rather tall and voluptuous; if I may degrade a quote from Henry James’ “The Europeans,” “she may not have a huge bosom—but she holds her head the way a woman with a huge bosom should.” With a fairy-tale complexion and a poisoned apple-laugh, she’s Snow White, Rose Red, the Wicked Stepmother and the Big Bad Wolf wrapped up20in a Pez-dispenser sized pack.

The other guests arrived and lo, they were a far more attractive and interesting bunch than expected, if a little tentative. I met and spoke with several people in music, law, finance, medicine and the arts, representing a fair cross-section of our fair city, none of whom seemed to have any clear idea of why they were there or why a sequel to “Heathers” was being filmed a little to the left of the cheese plate. Ironically, the vibe was much more High Society than Non-Society, suggesting that our erstwhile adventuresses had once again overshot the mark and were in danger of being outclassed by their crashers. Part of the disconnect was the simple fact that JA, Grumpy and Happy were continually surrounded by the camera crew, which made mingling with their guests a little awkward. Those admiring the (stunning) view were temporarily herded indoors at one point so that the main camera could film JA and either Mary or the other one talking or laughing or pouting or maybe just being disappointed with themselves. The other reason was that while initial comments suggested that our mutual friend Jennifer—of course you know Jennifer—had invited us all, subsequent mentions of Gawker page views left me suspecting that anyone there not working the event or a little white dog was one of you lot, in which case, next commentor’s ball should be clothing=2 0optional. It’s a bit hard to go up to someone and say “I think you’re kind of a clown and I am here sort of on a dare.” Particularly when the soft-shelled crab cakes are ZOMG sooooooooo super-yummo!

I am not fond of those who abuse hospitality, which is kind of what I’m doing here, so allow me to say: Julia, your party was fab. The food was great, the venue was beautiful, your dog is adorable, I really enjoyed the whole thing. My regards to Whosis and Whatsherface.

That said, in retrospect, the event seems profoundly weird.

Why was this party—which must have taken quite a bit of planning and expense—thrown together “at the last minute?”

How is it that three girls about town could not fill an intimate room with 35 people they actually knew? (I am guessing at least half of those there were responding to the letter on Gawker.)

Why was the party taking place in 1986? Was there a PS on the Gawker letter that said Cplease come dressed as a bit character from American Psycho?”

And could it be20that Miss Mary is less disappointed in herself than in herself standing next to Julia Allison? In which case, sucks to be you, kiddo. You just hitched your wagon to a publicity black hole.

In closing, why did I have so much fun? Is my life that bereft of adorable dogs and guys trying not to knock me out with a sound boom? Could it be that every one of us is alone on an Art Deco terrace, slightly disappointed with ourselves as we nibble the miso-infused strip steak skewer of fate? Aren’t we all, at the end of the superglamorous slightly Spy Magazine day, Mary Rambin? Or the other one?

Except for Julia, of course. And her little dog, too.

Lest you get your hopes up—honestly, no battle was fought that night, unless one counts the collective, epic consumption of Brooklyn Lagers. Cruelly, the task of dispensing the beer had been assigned to n+1’s young, nubile interns (both men and women.) Apparently this is a time-honored tradition. A plastic cup pleaded for a $1 donation per beer for these poor foot-soldiers of culture.

N+1's office was fairly small, sweltering, and full of people who kept inadvertently poking each other—much like the Internet itself. Who was crammed inside? We saw journalist Wesley Yang, Brian Stelter (formerly of TVNewser, currently of the NYT), and Harper's/n+1 contributor Christian Lorentzen (who we hear is dating an intern) and Harper's Miriam Markowitz. The New Yorker's Malcolm Gladwell was there, and someone showed him a cell-phone photo of themselves dressed up as him for Halloween, complete with an oversized curly wig. Luckily, Gladwell was amused.

The party was something of a minefield: people who live in glass Internets will eventually have a beery, slightly awkward conversation with somebody they threw an e-brick at. For example, I met Keith, who had not forgotten my declaring n+1 as not, in fact, the most important literary magazine of our time.

“Got any other suggestions?” he asked shortly after shaking my hand. (Meanwhile, I silently pondered his online remark referring to us as “card-carrying enemies of culture.” Should I update my business card?)

Jessica Wakeman, formerly of the HuffPo and now stringing for the Observer, wandered the crowd looking for Pareene. “He wrote about me!” she said. She was no doubt referring to his “earnest feminism” remark. An introduction was made.

Near the end of the evening—I am told—Gessen made a speech. Ever single person from Gawker was drunk (except for Hamilton) in the hallway at the time and missed it. However, eyewitness reports describe the novelist standing on a piece of furniture, waving his arms around in a mostly-futile call for silence:

He had spent the last two weeks on the Internet! he shouted over the din of the crowd. And during that time, he learned that the Internet was a place where people expressed their pain! (“Isn’t that what literature is?” somebody shouted back.) He would continue to express his pain via the Internet, he declared! Eventually, he got off the table.

A commenter for this website admitted to Gessen afterwards that he had been the one who had told him, online, to “suck his balls.” They embraced.

Meanwhile, there was no more beer. And so, the card-carrying enemies of culture headed down the rainy street to an empty bar, unsure of whether or not the battle had been won—or even fought. No matter. We continued to drink, expressing our pain long into the night.

[Photo: Joe's NYC]

Late in the evening a frisson rippled through the upper lobby as Rupert Murdoch and his wife Wendi came up the stairs. No matter that the Australian media mogul gave former Nixon aide Roger Ailes a cable news network to play with, nor that he publishes the neo-con rantings of the Wall Street Journal's opinion pages, and the nauseating moralizing of Andrea Peysner in the New York Post. Murdoch was immediately surrounded by friends and sycophants.

Best moment: Maer Roshan dragged photographer Nikola Tamindzic over to capture a moment of pretend intimacy with the 77-year-old tycoon. The move had all the subtlety of a high-school girl who was still trying to make her ex-boyfriend jealous: the intended audience was Mort Zuckerman of the Daily News, who let Roshan's magazine run out of money before he found a new benefactor.

But by the time Roshan managed to tap Murdoch's shoulder and extract him from his group, Nikola was distracted by some pretty girl; by the time the Radar editor refocused the Serbian photographer on the task at hand, a friend of Murdoch, Tom Freston, came over to have a tycoony chat; and by the time a slightly embarrassed Roshan finally got his photo opportunity, Zuckerman was distracted by a gold-digging Julia Allison. "He's single, right?" she asked.

Hey girls! Mort Zuckerman — owner of the New York Daily News — is single.

Larry David — creator and star of Curb Your Enthusiasm — is single.

Star talking head Julia Allison — seen here talking with Business Week's Sarah Lacy — is dressing for her new target demographic.

Matt Nye, Jann Wenner's boyfriend, with spiritualist Kathy Freston. It's a hard life being the spouse of tycoon; nobody else understands that.

Julia Allison looks a little different. Ah yes, no hand on hip. Or maybe something else.

Charlie Rose and Mort Zuckerman can at least turn on the charm when they need to. Liberal pundit Eric Alterman has no mode but obnoxious.

The power picture: Charlie Rose, Mort Zuckerman, Arianna Huffington, Jann Wenner and Rupert Murdoch.

Jacob Bernstein, son of the Watergate investigator, is thinking about his flat-screen television at home.

Yes, Wendi Deng is indeed hot — and tall. Seen here with Lloyd Grove, the former gossip columnist.

No matter how much he begs, not a penny into that Radar magazine. Mogul to mogul, let me tell you: worst decision I ever made.

Something about George Bush's crimes against humanity, probably.

PBS's Charlie Rose.

What on earth is Mediabistro's Laurel Touby doing here? I didn't recognize her without the boa.

This man looks important, but I have no idea who he is.

Rich gay men make such good fathers. (Arianna Huffington, whose husband Michael turned out to be a political loser and "bisexual" — with Jann Wenner. The Rolling Stone author and his boyfriend had a baby with a surrogate mother.)

You know who this is, don't you? The hotel bellboy — must have been living on some blissful service industry planet without continuous cable talk shows — didn't. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked. "Where is the Huffington car?" she replied.

Photos by Nikola Tamindzic

"Do you ever feel like very event, every happening in the city is just one giant photo op?" I ventured. (Yes, there was an open bar.)

"There's this giant beast that needs to be fed," he said. "Back in the '70s, nobody interviewed photographers. It was bad enough that they were interviewing rock stars. Not that I'm saying you're interviewing me. But I'm not going to—I mean, I have an eighteen-year-old daughter. I'm not going to judge her world... You live in a good time, love," he said, patting my arm. "I don't even enjoy hanging around with people my age, anyway."

Sloane Crosley was the lone female judge, along with Mick, watch designer Matthew Waldman, and Riley John of Surface. As an uber book publicist and newly published author, one might assume fashion ties to be tenuous at best. You'd be wrong: she was wearing a very chic bow-tie halter and red glasses. I inquired as to this bold choice:

"At first I thought [my glasses] would be too ironic, or something, but whatever. Without them, I can't see shit!"

Someone shoved the boom mic towards her face to judge the fashion parade: "Although I applaud the use of the breast-pillow," she said of one model's outfit, "I'm going to have to go with the other one."

"There's just something about the jock strap on the head," Mick Rock contributed, in-between canoodling with a young, drunk-looking blonde.

(Someone needs to say something about the New York version of the Stoli Hotel: it's kind of a shithole. I mean, we get it: we're living in a brand extension. Unfortunately, the physical world of this specific brand is a weird cavernous affair with concrete floors and cheap, tacky Stolichnaya-vodka-red visual themes. It's also not a hotel. There's no coat-check. And the restrooms are in a trailer, like at the state fair or a construction site. It rocks back and forth disconcertingly, like you're on a boat.)

That said, one should always remember the old adage: don't look a gift open bar in the mouth.

Larry Tee!


Mick Rock tells Sheila McClear about Mick Jagger.






Judges, from left to right: author and publicist Sloane Crosley, Matthew Waldman of Nooka, and Riley John of Surface.

[Photo: Brex's Flicker]

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?"