More of Mr. Kosloff's photographic sociological experiments can be found here.

I showed up at the Young Friends of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals fundraiser last night. It was held at Barry Diller's IAC building, which I guess is made of high technology materials like glass.

As you can see from this potatograph, the ASPCA made sure there were plenty of Komodo dragons on-hand to entertain the guests and — wait a minute, let me go back to my notes here for a sec ... yep, sorry, dogs, not Komodo dragons.

Shortly after this photo was taken the woman graciously licked all of the cocaine remnants out of the dog's nose (yaaaaaaay).

If you looked at this photo and bet $10,000 that these guys are a rock band, you just won yourself $10,000, which according to XE.com is currently worth 262,344,571.73 Vietnamese dong.

Voila le Your Vegas. What these guys do is rock, professionally. They're a band, and they're from the UK. Bunch of ssssssssexy sssssssssizllers, n'est pas? I would totally date all four of them if I were a woman, but I'd be very open and communicative and wouldn't hide anything except for my PIN number because you're not supposed to share that with anyone, not even your god damn mom.

Bai Ling rolled into the event like a typhoon with her boyfriend (left). I tried to ask him a few questions but someone tapped me on the shoulder and was like "He's mute." The scuttlebutt at the party last night anyway was that his career is about to 'splode.

A co-worker informs me that Bai Ling wins lots of "worst dressed" awards, but, guys, come on, how many of you kinda wish you were the panda boyfriend? Maybe just for one night? She could feed you panda snacks. And if you were her lactating girlfriend you could pull an Annie Leibovitz and bathe the crap out of her with panda milk.

I know someone who knows this guy, on the left, but that doesn't amount to a hill of panda poop when one considers that he is wearing about the best shoes I've seen in my life. I lost myself in them (not literally). Looking at the shoes made me feel like a Mexican flower woman, moving from bistro to bistro peddling her wares, but in my case without the dignity or the command of Spanish.

We had a very perfectly wonderful conversation, then I took a "time-out" to defrag my mother-board.

Yes, they are fashion models. They were about 6'2" and were also wearing big heels. I was standing behind them when this guy walked up to them, wide-eyed, although his nostrils weren't flaring, and he said, "I'm so intimidated by you guys," referring to their height, thereby not only coming off like a little [redacted], but also making it awkward for the models.

Attempting to clean up the mess, I tapped the one on the left and said, "I actually wish you were a little taller," and got a laugh out of her, and the laugh sounded something like this: "Hee hee heeeeee." Then I told her that if I were to photograph her for a magazine I'd have her dress up like a Swiss border guard, with the snappy hats and the bandoliers.

His name is Jamie and he works for New York magazine, and he got an email about three hours ago informing him that he might be on Gawker, but I don't think he's checked it yet, so, if you or someone you know is reading this, and you are socially or professionally down with Jamie, can you please tell him he's on Gawker? Thank you. Also, you can tell him that if I were a panda I would totally date him. But I'd have to be a gay panda because I'm one thousand percent not down with lactating.

Elijah Duckworth-Schachter (right) is a blue-blood, and by the time I spoke to him I was about 3/4's of the way through my 8th house drink (it was purple) so I don't remember much. If memory serves Elijah spoke of the guy who cuts his hair, see? Said he makes so much frickin' cash doing it that he only works one day a month or something along those lines, see? If you're wondering why I took the picture, I just liked their ties, OK tough guys?

This woman was delightful and had a smile that wasn't winning, it was game-changing.

Literally.

I got kind of tired of lugging my camera and flash around with me — back and forth and back and fucking forth — to outermost reaches of the IAC building including the toilet area, so I sat down and was relaxing with a nice game of self-pinochle, when this unnamed (or some might say nameless) woman breezed past me, like some kind of porpoise or something, and smiled. I returned the smile, and when I looked down, my game of self-pinochle had turned into Chutes 'N Ladders. Some smile!!

More of Mr. Kosloff's photographic sociological experiments can be found here.

These two women were out fliering for their Monday cabaret show at Public Assembly. We took about two hours to discuss the lighting, tonality and composition of this shot, as well as how to place all of the mannequins in the background, and I think I can speak for the three of us when I say we were quite pleased with the results. Our collaboration was marred only by a friendly conversation I had ex post facto with their legal and management teams which came to blows. Sad.

The line to get through the gates snaked along the East River like a seething yet smartly dressed millipede. It spilled off of Kent Avenue onto side streets and then spilled back. On a brighter note, the vibe was relaxed, it moved fairly quickly, and people were eager to share their ginger ale.

Just when you thought it was safe to feel comfortable and be yourself again, Grizzly Bear goes ahead and performs for free at the East River State Park, right over there in Williamsburg, with openers Vega and Beach House. I realize we are in the snark zone, but I just want to say (wistfully) that it may have been the highlight of my summer (sniffs, then bursts into tears).

We all have pet peeves. I have 11 of them. Number six is concert photography, which frequently affords me the opportunity to try to get good pictures of people who are standing eight feet above me and are surrounded by microphones, amps, and many other forms of clutter.

Oh well, this shot of Grizzly Bear bassist Chris Taylor came out OK. I think if this picture were an imaginary creature it would be an enchanted wombat, soaring gracefully over Tokyo, but periodically diving into gun-runs and strafing the fashionable Ginza district.

Who has seen the wind? Hello? Testing, testing?

On a more topical note, what do they call these things? Wind demons? Breeze buddies? Gale fellows? They're like smurfs, but much elongated and mute.

There were two of them. I named this one Milton, after my grandfather, whose proud, unbending parents may or may not have emigrated to the Bronx from an area that is today a suburb of Vladivostock.

If you've recently been laid off or are just looking for a new direction in life, Jelly NYC, the entity that synthesized the concert is hiring Breeze Buddies.

Applicants should have a positive attitude, enjoy the outdoors. Additionally, while not required, your resume will be given special attention if you are detail oriented, about 30 feet tall, and blue.

These two charming and able bi-peds caught the show from across Kent Avenue. I did not fall in love with either of these people in the 30 seconds that fate threw us so suddenly (and so violently) together, nor did I fall in love with them as a couple. But I did briefly fall in love with the idea of falling in love with them.

Shortly after this photograph was taken they were both accosted by a rogue wind demon.

I wonder what this woman was thinking as she basked in the afternoon sun out there on Kent Avenue. I wonder what was in her plastic cup. I have a fairly pronounced juvenile streak, so I also wonder, looking back now, how much time had passed since the last dog urinated on the pole she was leaning against. I hope it had been many, many hours and that the pole thing had been sanitized in the mean while.

These are the days of our lives.

This man had a similarly dressed colleague, but the back of the colleague's shirt read "Event Insecurity," and he was tasked with providing talk therapy to people in need. Ha ha—just kidding. Hey do you have any gum?

You know the economy is really hurting when your VIP pass entitles you to sleep in a ditch.

I think if this photograph were a dastardly villain it would be Lex Luthor, as played by Gene Hackman, of course.

Do you ever think about, like, human faces? One of the things that interests me is how some faces are sort of decade-specific, but other people look like they'd fit in quite well in, oh, say, a photograph from the 1920's, for example. Like this dude. Like he just escaped from the Dust Bowl and now just has a few text messages he needs to send. I appreciated him for not punching me in the face after I took this photo of him without asking his permission.

Some people make money the old-fashioned way: selling bomb pops.

More of Mr. Kosloff's work can be found here.

Some people think fashion is all about clothes and models and words like "frisson," but those people — ha, feel free to chide them. For example, there's the 501c3 called Fashion Delivers. They aggregate unwanted clothing from clothing companies and then donate them to people who are totally unwealthy.

Last night over at the M2 lounge, Fashion Delivers honored some peeps in the industry who do good things for the planet, as opposed to just eating in expensive restaurants.

On the left are Jessica Moment and Sally Fowler, whose boutique, Philanthropist, donates 100% of its profits to good causes. Chloe Jo Berman is the founder of the eco-blog girliegirlarmy.com, and Linda Loudermilk designs fancy yet sustainable clothing.

HAIL ECO-GODDESSES!

My strategy for covering the event was time-tested and straight-forward: (a) hang out on the periphery (b) look wounded and (c) project self-loathing. As evidenced by this photo-picture, Linda Loudermilk and her companion deployed an alternative strategy, which was to embrace one another and smile warmly for the lens.

Chloe Jo Berman authoritatively pulled off a dress that looks like it would be absolutely impossible to pull off. Black, yellow, red, blue ... woooooweeeeee.

For those readers who are "in the know," the debt this photograph owes to Julian Jaynes's seminal "The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bi-cameral Mind" (Princeton, 1976) are readily apparent. His thesis? Up until the late 2nd millenium BC, we were all basically schizophrenic.

If I may speak candidly, I think his genitals were schizophrenic. There, I said it. "Julian Jaynes's genitals were totally schizophrenic." I know that's hard to hear, but it "is" what it "is." He was a prof at Princeton, incidentally.

Troubling news.

One of the women in this picture is ... a mannequin — oh I'm just skwitter-skwaterrin' ya.

For the aspiring journalists and photographers among you, the first rule of journalism is to forget or accidentally destroy all of the notes you take while on assignment. Here's what I have for you on these ladies: The foremost blonde lass works at a well-known department store, and she tried the old, "Yes I'm wearing a nice dress, but I'm very shy with photographs" routine. Nice try kid.

Sometimes cameras can make people feel inhibited. Other times, cameras can be used to help people express themselves, as was the case with these two vachement charmant attendees.

The atmosphere was pregnant with exciting themes and business networking. Shortly after this picture was taken, this gentleman was approached by representatives of Home Depot and, well, keep your eyes out for his line of garden gnomes next year!

Oh to be young, and free, and alive, and to have long brown hair, and to be captured on film (sensors, actually) on a lovely Thursday evening at the Waldorf Astoria, and to have invented the Internet, but this is so confusing, because the weather was actually quite bleak, and as previously discussed this was the M2 lounge, nothing makes sense any more.

You can find the rest of Stephen's work here.

Webtards. Webonomics. Conwebulations. This is the afterparty for the Webby awards at the Hiro Ballroom in Manhattan's Chelsea district, and it seemed as if as soon as I walked in someone stuck some kind of microchip in my brain and I was like, "Ow, I hate you!"

It was a fun party, an abundance of suits aside. Maybe one day I will have some insight into my aversion to business suits, but until then, I'm just going to flop around, all ungainly, in the muck of said aversions.

Dear reader,
these are the Beatards. They performed first and they sang with righteousness. It was a bit like watching the Beastie Boys before they blew up with their hit single "Girlfriend in a Coma."

HER: I wonder if my hair is blonde and curly enough for him.
HIM: Her hair is so blonde and curly, it's just ... the best.
HER: I hope he doesn't think I'm stupid just because I'm blonde.
HIM: I hope she doesn't think that I think she's stupid just because she didn't go to Yale.
HER: Oops I just barfed a little in my mouth.
HIM: Yankees tickets.

Looking at this photograph, the couch, the woman, it's hard to tell who's being exploited. The couch, or the woman? I don't know about you guys, but in these situations I find it's best to (1) pressure-test the stake-holders and (2) cascade out the pushback on the download (dorfdorfdorfdorfdorfdorf).

Roger McShane is the deputy countries editor at the Economist. He's apparently also one of those "so-called business card gobblers."

I just want to pause here for a moment to reflect on his title. Deputy countries editor. Can you imagine waking up in the morning and being like "Oh shit, I have to edit Uganda!" For me anyway, this title conjures visions of Mr. McShane flying first class on British Airways, landing in Kampala, stepping out onto the tarmac with a bull-horn, and yelling "OK, Your GDP is now 8% bitches!" and then getting back on the plane and flying home to a quiet dinner of quail.

I read some graffiti once in Galveston to the effect that love is life's sweetest reward, and, to tell you the truth, it was a sentiment that rang false to me. After photographing this couple, however, I decided to revisit my views and I feel different. Like, better.

I got the fat beats. He got the fat beats.

Actually my beats aren't that fat. Yameen Allworld let loose with some flow and what have you with DJ ?uestlove of the Roots crew spinning behind him. Yameen is from Philly and has a myspace pal whose moniker is Newt Blingrich.

Friends, lovers, or just ardent co-smilers? The mysteries of the Internet continue to propagate, multiply, and then explode like an angry puma, actually lashing out at you and clawing your groin.

I admired Erin Sorenson's spikey blonde hair and convivial demeanor so I asked her what she does, and dog my cats if she doesn't work for Wieden+Kennedy. She's based in their Portland office. She attended to the info-scribbling with a seriousness of purpose that spoke well of her and her firm, which deals in munitions.

Oh I'm just fritter-fratterin' with ya. It's an ad shop.

There's a time for the Internet and there's a time for adderall and there's a time for candygrams and ... and ... Sheesh. I seem to have lost my train of thought.

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

This couple, through their actions and their attitudes at the launch party, conveyed the passion of Internet Week 2009. It took place at the Puck Building. Lauren is a dancer (jazzy) and her friend self-ID'd as a "hot dog vendor." So, hot dog guy and Lauren, thank you for your passions. May they never ever lead you ... INTO THE DEN OF THE HYENA!

I was like, "Hey dude, who are you?" and he was like "I'm David-Michael Davies," and I was like, "Oh, so what does that mean exactly?" and he was like "I'm the chairman of Internet Week," and I was like "Oh yeah? I'm the emperor of Internet Decade, so there," and then he was like "Oh yeah, well, my tie is actually a detachable bong."

Disclaimers:
(1) He is David-Michael Davies.
(2) He is the chairman of Internet Week.
(3) The above dialog did not happen, technically.
(4) His tie was a gift from his wife and it was hype.
(5) Apparently one of the guests left their Ark of the Covenant on the dance floor.

This was a sad trend. Interpeople handing out business cards with job titles that no longer attach to them, or, more troubling, from media entities that got kind of dead recently. Take the above subject, Sarah Scully — an avid reader of Gawker, incidentally — who handed me her card. Independent Film Channel. Producer & political correspondent for IFC news. But now, not so much. Oh well, she seemed unruffled ohhhhhhh snap.

Meanwhile, loitering in the background, Robert Stepanek, a previously documented composer of rap operas.

The fluorescing gentleman in the plaid shirt, Rogier Vijverberg, was in town for the Interfests with his colleagues from the ad agency Super Heroes. His colleagues and the agency are Dutch. I was like, "So are your beers."

After our exchange of pleasantries, Rogier and his pals sauntered over to the dance floor to check out the Ark of the Covenant. I wanted to warn them about staring into it.

Andrea Chalupa, with the be-flowered dress, yes, speaking of enterprises that died, worked for Portfolio and still had those biz cards. She is now gainfully employed by America Online. Yo, AOL! How about giving your employees some business cards?? Sheesh.

Chutzpah walked in the door, and she was wearing black clothes. This woman is holding up tree-media, a zine-poster thing called Show Paper. It is a listing of all-ages shows in the city, and it's on newsprint.

Oh, and it has horoscopes too. Let's see what's up for Taurus-branded motherfuckers: "You can't run away from your problems. You could if they had a knife but in most instances your problems have a gun and can fly."

Wow. Bummer.

The DJ scratched music, and the video was synched up to the scratching too. Neato!

This photograph was taken about one second after the Dutch advertising people lifted the top off the Ark of the Covenant and about 4 seconds before their faces melted off.

I was like, "I told you so."

Calling all agents, calling all agents. Report! Report!

Eventually the committee of Internets was like, "Enough with the melting faces already," and took appropriate counter-measures.

Arks of the Covenant: Not to be fucked with. Ever.

[How about trying out this post with our brand spanking new gallery format? You'll be glad you did.]

Last night the Village Voice held their 54th annual Obies awards at Webster Hall, doin' that Off-Broadway awards thang. Vivian and Anastasia wandered in off the streets, humble girls from broken homes.

And now, a quick check of the agenda ... oh yes, dating advice. When you see an attractive person in a discotheque, approach them calmly, tap them on the shoulder, and, at the top of your lungs, scream, "Date me or I will fire you!!!"

Hoop is an artist and party promoter. He was pals with Baird Jones and still sends out party e-mails under his name, even though Baird is (cough cough) dead.

Espying this lovely Jewel of the Nile and the Hudson, I approached her, tapped her on the shoulder, and got as far as "Date me or I will fi..." before she connected with the larynx gouge.

Kevin T. Carroll won an Obie for "sustained excellence of performance." I would have nominated him for best suit too, but that was not in my power. What is in my power is to open up the floor to questions. Yes, you ma'am, with the pantyhose over your face.

WOMAN WITH PANTY-HOSE OVER HER FACE: Mmm ff arr blaaa French cinema grism fuffle burfle?

SK: Let's try that again without the pantyhose over your face.

WOMAN: Sorry about that. I was just wondering what your thoughts were on French cinema.

SK: Excellent question. The young French cinema must become a little less egotistically and more and more academically urban in spirit. Three-quarters of the subjects having contemporary relevance which it deals with would be better and more at home in a milieu other than Paris.

[Sound of audience staring blankly at speaker.]

If, like me, you fantasize incessantly about running away and eloping with a pair of ravishing drag queens, you might want to check these ladies out. Violet Temper and Linda Simpson. Linda, on the left, is the promotions director for, let me just consult her business card here ... The Cock.

Sxip Shirey entertained the crowd with his peculiarly excellent synthed-out harmonica. His companion on stage violated the terms of her contract and was promptly suspended.

I think these were for sale. The paintings, not the succulent young men.

Now, I'll open up the floor for questions. You sir, in the tuxedo.

MAN: Oh thankth. Tho, it appearth ath though your responth to the earlier question about Frenchth thinema ith a word-for-word snatch from an ethay by Jean Luc Godard.

SK: Wow, that's odd. Nice lisp, by the way.

MAN — Thankth.

SK: Probably what happened — and I want to extend my sincere apologies to Jean-Luc — is that I was having a conversation with my neighbor across the alley, through two plastic cups strung together with some dental floss — I think it was mint — and, you see, he had attended several raves at the Sorbonne in the mid-90's, so, that probably explains it. Now, if you will quietly just crawl into a corner and go fuck yourself, I would appreciate it, especially as you probably did not even attend Yale.

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

Today we have a non film festival report for you and your mittens. Some readers may find it offensive to their gestalt. The event was a birthday party for Jason Kim and Louis Sarmiento, who turned 30. JK = promoter, LS = publisher of Fashion Week Daily and other titles.

The locale was Rendez Vous, a restaurant in the meat-packing district, and then later Kiss and Fly, a club right above it. More on Kiss and Fly in a moment.

Do you feel disoriented when you look at this picture? I know I do, and when I feel disoriented, what I like to do is offer to paypal $7.52 to the first person who e-mails me with the definition of the word "pleonasm." Why $7.52? No fucking idea! Why pleonasm? Because it's a great word, and it deserves more play in the media. A LOT more play, so nyaaaaaah!! This is not a joke. Those dollars have your name on them if you are a word nerd or a fast Googler.

No one at Kiss and Fly was more suprised than I was to see my mom there.

Oh I'm juss foolin' with ya. This woman is not my mother, nor is she my accountant, nor is she my driver. She is Sasckya Porto, a former Miss Brazil, model, and a Playboy playmate. Beyond "uffda" I have nothing more to add to the matter.

Speaking of awkward moments, I was totally wearing the same outfit.

These women, including Hayley Collins on the right, felt very "exposed." Get it? Exposed? Ha ha / Step right this way / The halibut is fresh / but that's not what I'm here to discuss. What I'm here to discuss is what a suck-fest the club Kiss and Fly is.

What a shocker, right? A club in the meat-packing district that sucks? But what I'm bringing you from the trenches is some specific information about this club's brand of suckiness.

Ready? OK, let's go!

I ordered two drinks and put them on my Amex and when I looked at the bill, they had added a 20% tip onto the price of the drinks. And the two drinks were I think over $20, so a $5 tip for two drinks. Gaaaaaaaaaaaay.

Did I get angry? No, I turned to art. I went home and composed a ballad, and the title of the ballad is "Kiss and Fly Can Kiss My Half Russian-Jewish Ass."

If my intuition serves, you woke up this morning and the first thought that entered your mind was "How do photographers prepare, mentally and emotionally, to shoot night life?"

Good question! Having received the invitation to the birthday party, I thought that probably the best way to prepare for it, spiritually and emotionally, was to dive into Joel Kraemer's biography of Maimonides, which, as you can imagine, was an invaluable resource.

The woman on the right was bemoaning the status of her job or relationship or something and I was like, "Well, at least you — unlike Maimonedes — have not suffered 'well-known calamities in Egypt'" (P. 255, paragraph 3). Informers trying to get him whacked, penury, sickness, the works.

Sometimes photographers, in their efforts to report on their subjects, are stymied or met with larynx gouges. This subject would not divulge her name, but she did divulge her neck and her home town: Vegas.

She told me what she does for a living too, but then swore me to mumness, and when I swear, I swear sincerely, like this: FUCK SHIT PISS!

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

It was a party for the nondescript publication's annual "Beautiful People" issue, this edition featuring Christian rocker turned manufactured pop rocker grrl Katy Perry. And, aside from the general hideousness of that as a concept (not to mention what sort of asshole you have to be to consider yourself worthy of going to a party called "Beautiful People"), the thing sounded like a damn organizational nightmare.

Four thousand buffoons RSVP'd to the shindig, held at Hiro Ballroom in Chelsea, which proved far over capacity. Scores of people were turned away at the door, left to wriggle and clatter on the cold, cold sidewalk like so many ugly, normal people. Among them: Poor stricken heiress Lydia Hearst and, embarrassingly for everyone involved but especially whoever the party planners were, Paper magazine editor Peter Davis. He'd just flown in from India and was left stranded at the door, Guest of a Guest breathlessly reported.

It was Paper Magazine Editor Peter Davis. He had literally just flown in from India. Keith Lissner and I showed up an hour late to the party and found Peter with his hot new boyfriend (a student at Parsons), unable to get passed the door. They had been at capacity and the mob outside looked straight out of L.A. We had no choice but to leave…

Yes, sigh. GoaG was stuck outside too.

On the precious inside was your usual cacophony of idiocy and reasons why New York can become such an easy place to hate. Like the Katie Couric of New York weeklies, the New York Observer went around asking attendees an important, hard-hitting question: "What does it mean to be beautiful?" Every little oil slick they asked said the same sad thing: it's what's inside! Which, as we should all know by now, is one of those lies children are told about the world, like "You can be anything you want to be." They should have just asked this robot. Case closed.

Our favorite party response? The doubling-back-on-itself theorizing of soap star Chrisell Stause:

It's all about what's inside. It's kind of used and tired. But especially in this economy when you can't really maybe afford the finer things, you've got to rock the vintage or whatever. But you've got to do it with confidence. It's all how you feel.

We feel :(

Image via WENN

iTunes DJ works like a jukebox, sort of. You can't change the song currently playing, you can just vote on songs currently in the queue, moving them up or down in the list, and you can add new songs from the library. So if the host's collection is pretty SWV heavy, but you'd prefer to mix in a little R. Kelly, you can do that! Or if your coworker is really into early Black Sabbath but you want to tap into their little-known Jill Sobule menagerie, hey, go for it. Now, the drunker or more spiteful people are, the pushing up and down, up and down, of the various songs on the queue may get a bit too heated and frequent, but barring people being jerks (which most people are), it ought to work pretty well.

For those of us who have secret, terrible songs in our iTunes library that no one should ever know about (I only have those High School Musical songs so I can lure teenagers into my car, not because I actually like them, I mean jeez Louise...), the idea that someone with a magic internet phone could just go riffling through any dark corner of our music collection is horrible. So, even though you get to decide whether or not you want to allow people in, it's still a drawback. What if you forget about a particular song, and then all of a sudden people burst out laughing and then the first lilting strains of "Coat of Many Colors" come trembling over the speakers and you want to die? Yikes. But in terms of creating as democratic a musical environment possible, it's a sound (heh) idea.

So, yeah, get on your phone tube and order up iTunes DJ. Then crank the Skynyrd and hope to God no one finds that small pocket of B*witched tunes. Though, if they sort by "Most Played," you're fucked.

Barack Obama is the fashion of the day. Accordingly, his most visible supporters have been rewarded with increased social cachet. Supporters like unnecessary Times columnist Maureen Dowd, who jumped into the politics bed with bigtime Obama fan David Geffen some time ago and hasn't looked back. She had a star-studded pre-Inauguration fete at her Georgetown home this weekend—a party so crowded that the likes of Tom Hanks and Larry David were forced to mingle outside. She was the social queen of the waning political season.

In 2000 Purdum and his wife, former White House spokeswoman Dee Dee Myers, had a glittery and in-demand party, when the DNC was in Los Angeles back and Purdum was bureau chief for the New York Times. (In 2006, Graydon Carter lured Purdum to Vanity Fair with a big pay raise and a "national editor" title.) It was the hot ticket of the evening, with all manner of celebrities clamoring to get in. Sarah Jessica Parker left Purdum a voicemail at his office the next day, thanking him for the lovely evening. It was a natural success. Purdum and Myers were big Clintonians, which, back in 2000, still really meant something.

Purdum had a party in DC the same night as Dowd's. And looks like they haven't quite shaken off the Clintonian brand even though they've fallen out of the Clinton orbit. Earlier this year Bill called Purdum a "scumbag" because he had the audacity to point out in Vanity Fair that much of his post-presidential life seems to be flying around with billionaires and models on private planes people refer to as "Air Fuck One." So, the sad thing? Their biggest celebrity guest was Michael Powell, Colin's FCC-chairing boring old son.

That is, you know, if Facebook is to be believed. Just doing a simple search for "Bush" in the Events application yields dozens of listings for "End of an Error" or "Bush Bash" parties. Everyone is so happy to burn the outgoing terriblest-president-ever in effigy and get drunk and feel the cathartic shift of soul-crushing pessimism being reduced to an act of remembrance! It seems a bit like yelling angrily while a new baby is being born (maybe the Scientologists are onto something there), but whatever. In some ways the getting rid of Bush-anger experience is probably more powerful than the "omigod, new Change!!!" one. At least we know for sure that the leaving is actually going to happen.

So why not throw one for yourself? Michael Musto knows where to get supplies.

The Washington Post runs an urgent story today about the trials and travails of planning a party of such scope. Two guys named Erik Smith and Jim Margolis, Democratic communication strategists, have been tasked to cobble the damn thing together. The Post sort of wrings its hands and vaguely prognosticates doom, but the thing is, Obama's a huge celebrity who lesser celebrities lurve. He can get anyone he wants, anytime.

Beyoncé has made her services available, gratis, and Barbra Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, and Billy Joel have all been vocal supports of the boy from Illinois. It seems likely they'll make appearances. And I'm sure any manner of other acts would trip over themselves to be present at this most Hopetorical occasion. The Post needn't worry, unless they're concerned about like set changes and stuff. In that case, well, who really cares.

Plus Obama just doesn't need a ton of famous people encouraging us to like him. He's enough. He's the main act. While Bill Clinton—whose inaugural set the watermark for big splashy presidential fetes—was propped up by his many celebrities endorser-performers, Obama is an industry of fabulous entertainment unto himself. "Clinton basked in the glow of celebrities. Now celebrities bask in the glow of Obama," a Hollywood publicist told the Post. "Somehow he has become the sun and we're rotating in his orbit." Exactly. He can book anyone he wants, but in the end he's still the main draw of the whole enterprise.

As the girls on Super Sweet Sixteen continually remind us: even if Mystikal or whoever shows up, the party is still about meeee. So, as long as the Mercedes the American people promised Barry is waiting, with a big bow on top, outside the White House, I think it'll be just fine.

The most important point to make, though, is that whatever the performance ends up being, even if it is just Obama orating lyrically for a few hours (we wouldn't mind!), it's bound to be better than the last shitstorm inaugural. Here was Bush's line-up. See if you can spot which two of these things (but especially one) is not like the others:

"Destiny's Child, Lee Ann Womack, George Strait, ZZ Top, Clint Black, Brooks & Dunn and Ricky Martin"

Ugh.

The Rookery is a bar/restaurant that is, like 8th grade birthday parties and the marriage certificate line at Sacramento city hall, invite-only. How exclusive. But in the spirit of the White House opening its back door and letting Barack Obama and his lovely family shuffle in, The Rookery is allowing any Joe, Dick, or John-Jane Georgetown party it up at their joint. For 95 Confederate dollars you get a free open bar until 4am (4am!! DC passed a special dispensation allowing bars to stay open, like when they had the Olympics in Salt Lake and people were allowed to drink and touch each other's privates and stuff). Oh, and yeah. Luke, son of late Meet the Press host Tim, will be doing a hosting duty of his own. Hopefully there's a hot tub. A band called Old Man Brown is playing which is... um... unfortunate.

Ah well. So you can get classily shitcanned (jacket required!) all night and then stumble over to watch history happen. Then stumble home and watch the party on HBO, which will feature the old moderate-hippie stylings of Babs and The Boss.

You won't remember any of it, but you'll have participated. Which is all that matters.

Party Type 1: Oh, This Is Nice
You usually end up at this party after Tanya can't come into town after all and cancels or you were just too darn busy to make good plans, real plans, ahead of time. So you put on a sweater you got for Christmas or the cocktail dress you bought for Debbie's engagement party that you never wore again, and drag some poor unwitting sap of a friend to the party where you don't really know anyone. It's super awkward at first and you just stand by the cheese and crackers, nodding your head to the music, furtively gulping room-temperature chardonnay and furiously wishing for midnight. That way you can hug and kiss the host—she's Tom's friend from work—on the cheek and be on your merry way. What you forget, of course, is that everyone at this party is awkward, and everyone is furtively gulping booze so round about 11:15 er'body's crunk and having deep, sloshy meaningful conversations with each other and your friend is making out with some dude in the hallway and it's sort of the best-slash-worst party you've ever been to. See, the key is to not expect much from New Year's eve. Then it has potential to be great fun. Until you wake up the next morning and you vaguely remember telling that cute guy with the glasses about the time you peed your pants on the R train and you might have cried at one point and oh god you can never, ever see any of those people ever again.

Party Type 2: There's a Place Just a Few Blocks Up
Another product of poor planning. You've cobbled together a group of friends, some are visiting from out of town!, and you're psyched and ready to go except no one made dinner reservations and oh fuck aren't you supposed to like pay a hundred bucks to get inside a bar and stay there all night or something? No worries. There's this Italian place on 7th that's always empty and maybe that bar we went to that time won't be so full. What you end up doing is eating a hasty, bad, too-expensive meal then trudging from bar to bar to bar because everything is too crowded. You're blessed with one friend who keeps complaining that you guys are walking too fast and her shoes are killing her and another who is suspiciously shitfaced. (The culprit is later revealed to be a well-hidden flask). Then everyone gets mad and starts snapping at each other and someone finally yells "I just want to be somewhere, anywhere inside, at midnight. Not wandering around on the street." So you go to the worst, first bar you can find and have a couple beers and hug meekly at twelve then drink some more, and then the secret ninja drunk is trying to coax a stranger at the bar to do untoward things so it's time to take them home and who's going where and let's split cabs maybe? No? OK, fine. Good night. Let's actually make a plan next year, and ugh. You hate New Year's. It's never what you want it to be.

Party Type 3: At the Clurrrrrb
You paid $150 for an unlimited fount (if you can ever actually get to the bar) of watered-down well vodka and sodas! There are swirling lights and meaty guys with shimmer-shirts fist pumping and yelling "you my boy!" or "Ima wreck you, son!" and zomg, Kim Kardashian or someone is hosting! These are the worst kind of New Year's Eve parties, in my opinion, because you're trapped in a terrible place with terrible people but you spent all this money and what else would you be doing anyway? (see above) The celebrity-hosted ones (though they may be in short supply this year) are the worst because they're getting paid a ton to be there and act like they're having fun, while you are paying a ton to be there and act like you're having fun. Will you be enjoying New Year's Eve this year at Marquee in New York City? The celebrity emcee is none other than Dancing With the Stars runner-up and Wedding in Las Vegas megastar Mario Lopez. Your straight boyfriend will just love that, won't he. Disco dancin' while some half-a-fag Carebear stares his dimples at all the ladays. Enjoy it.

Party Type 4: Oh, We Went to Bed at 11
This is mostly your parents. Or it was mostly your parents and, shriek!, now it's you. You are tired and who wants to spend the money anyway. You put the bottle of champagne that someone brought over for a party months ago into the freezer and sit on the couch watching Father of the Bride: Part II, flicking back occasionally to the Dick Clark/Ryan Seacrest annual Times Square is a Miserable Shithole Rockin' Eve and vow to stay up and watch the ball drop and call your friends (or kids) who are out enjoying themselves. Maybe you're with one other person, I dunno. What ends up happening is that you fall asleep on the couch, snore through midnight, wake up with a start at 1:15, turn off the TV (which is now showing a M*A*S*H rerun), and shuffle off to bed. The next day you'll spend some time cleaning the broken champagne bottle glass out of the freezer then walking around the corner to get a bagel. It'll be like the opening in Shaun of the Dead when he doesn't realize everyone else is zombies. An empty, slightly destroyed cityscape and just you alone, strolling along. Because you didn't go out last night. And you're not sure if you're sad about it.

Party Type 5: Auld Lang Syne
And then sometimes it just works out. Your house party is awesome and everyone comes and has a great time. Or it was just the perfect bar. Or the couch was just fine and you (and, if you're lucky, someone special) curled up and enjoyed being home. And then at midnight everyone around you felt very close by, and those who couldn't make it felt very far away, and you smiled and hugged and maybe sang and just gushed about how wonderful New Year's is, really how wonderful. When else throughout the year, throughout life, do we ever all gather to celebrate the passing of time, rather than mourn it? It's a good, ancient thing. And something we should do more often.

Or maybe you're just drunk and it's just another nice night. And that's enough to be happy for.

The party will be a much more intimate affair than in years past; we’re going to scale back the guest list considerably. We’ll celebrate Hollywood’s big night the way we did when we first threw the party 15 years ago — it will be a cozier, more understated event. And one with familiar décor — given the current economy, and our dedication to the green movement, we will be recycling many of the elements of years past.

Ohhh. So it's just old used crepe paper from a coupla years ago, plus some of those colorful cigarette butts, and maybe some pizza bagels and only Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn are invited, and they have to be waiters. The good thing, though, is that they can't afford to pay the electricity bill at the Sunset Tower Hotel (a business associate of Carter's owns that joint, so they're probs getting a sweet deal), so there won't be any power at all. That'll make it Green!

It's admirably noble of Graydon and Co. to keep positive and upbeat while the industry firesales around them, but if they throw the party and then anyone gets laid off, that'll really suck.

Vanity Fair Going Ahead With Oscar Party [Nikkie Finke]

The captain of the under-21 team, Phil Boon, said he "didn't see what the problem was". He said Jewish girls had accepted invites to the party. "I can understand why it might have offended some people, but it would have been an awesome social." Boon refused to comment further.

[Guardian]

Oh, and Update: In a brand new post! Ms. Brill discusses her invite-only soiree with her aspirating "readership" and asks the very, very important question: "ESSENTIALLY ASKING: what do you want to know about my friends’ political views?" To which the only response is: "Abso-fucking-lutely nothing."

No, but seriously: "go ahead, ask away! they might just answer for themselves tonight. holla!"

You should try to get in if only for the salient political commentary that Ms. Brill is apt to spout while she chuckles to herself, feeling that she's already won the only thing worth winning.

HOLLA!

Spencer—enemy of Lauren and "separation of face and beard color" activists—and his dim assistant Heidi stormed the gates of his sister Spencerina's birthday party, much to the chagrin of his sworn enemy Lauren. (Spencer later opined that the two sides were like Iran and Israel in their potential for ever getting along. Pessimist! Also "if there are two ships, that's jumping ship.") Oh and his former bromancer Brody seemed real upset too as he said he just wanted to "have fun and party" rather than sit there with his long lost fried and feel sad. Spencerina tried to suppress her "look all this drama is about meeeee" gleeful grin, and her helium-filled birthday balloons bobbed in the air, occasionally bumping into one another. A metaphor for the entire show, really.

Elsewhere Whitney continued to succeed at work, where she is some sort of assistant something-or-other to the terrifically scary Kelly Cutrone. That poor girl Jessica from last season, the one who couldn't seem to get anything right, was (sob!) fired, and now Whitney will live a bi-coastal life as the successor to the position. So good for Whitney and good for MTV's possible Whitney spin-off. Bad for poor Jessica—though did anyone else notice what looked like Jessica winking to Kelly after the fearsome PR maven gave her a thorough chewing out at the company dinner? Maybe she's got some sweet back-end deal set up. Or, you know, maybe she was just twitching, realizing she'd soon be fired and forgotten.

Lo continues to be insanely evil, purring to Lauren on the way to the club that only the people "who matter" are getting along with their third roommate, Audrina. We're not exactly sure what her effing problem is with Audy, though it might just be the role she was cast in. "Hey Lo, you doing anything down there in Laguna? No? OK, well how's about you come on up to LA and act like a bitch. We'll give you twenty grand a week." Who would say no to that?

And I don't know. Did anything else happen? Doug the Burrito Heir showed up to the party and acted beefy and Lauren ended the episode by saying that she maybe doesn't quite trust Spencerina. Because, again, who dares invite their brother to their own birthday party? Even if powerful TV people command you to do so. Just outrageous.

Jill and daughter.

Jill and her "gay husband" (Barf.) Correction: There is a gay husband, and he was there, but this is not him. This is her actual hubby.

The ladies who lunch at the second most expensive restaurant.

"Later on I'm going parasailing."

"I'm still heeeere."

Pool partay!

It's about balls.

She's not married and has a job, and yet she's still a housewife.

Ghosts of guests.