[via Flickr]

[NoisyDecentGraphics]

[Complex via OhNoTheyDidn't]

[EW]

"Mel and his wife Robyn clearly saw a woman in crisis and wanted to extend themselves in any way possible," the unidentified friend told the Daily Mail. There are no expectations, there is no agenda. It's simply an act of human kindness, one neighbor reaching out to another." Aw! Britney has a new friend! [UPI]

[Flickr]

WHICH IS WHICH?

[Ashley Dupre pics via Us]

Why it's UsMagazine.com refugee and current editrix at PageSix.com, Noelle Hancock! And you'll all be glad to know she made it through childhood completely unmolested!

[Then and now photos of Noelle Hancock via her blog, Just Putting It Out There...]

The cookies look a lot like Martha! 1970s stoney Martha.

And these look just so much like Howard Stern and yet they do not smell of personal lubricant.

That sign also says in tiny type, "Don't fuck with my motherfucking tree, you fucks."

10.Last Night's Party. Red Bull Without A Cause photo #2025: Unless you're a college freshman McSweeney's groupie chick who's into 3-ways, even one of this guy is way too many.

9.The Cobrasnake. Dont Stop Camping photo #2869: I think the hipster photographers should get together and put out an annual wall calendar of wasted 19 year-old scenester chicks sitting on filthy sidewalks in front of random closed-up bodegas (sometimes near a pile of vomit). Because we see a lot of these shots, and each of them are every bit as adorable as a kitten in a laundry basket wearing an Army helmet.

8. Last Night's Party. mtvU photo #3465: Nice hat and emo expression, you fucking douchebag. You look like a gay bear riverboat gambler on lithium.

7. The Cobrasnake. mtvU photo #2919: Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!

6. Nicky Digital. Gallery M photo #63219: Shhhh...he's quietly wishing people would take him more seriously.

5. The Cobrasnake. Time Bomb photo #5206: Look if you get date-raped by this guy, and you didn't want to, it's really your own fault. I mean, the coke glasses, the stubble, the member's only jacket, the "I will date rape you" expression - is there any way he could possibly be more upfront about this?

4. The Cobrasnake. 24 Hour Paper Store photo #4773: Lohan must've swan dived off the wagon again, because there's no way in hell a sober person would ever willingly hang out with someone who has THAT haircut, yet clearly still takes themselves very seriously. He's one of those magical LA people who seem completely ridiculous to the naked eye, but suddenly turns into a fascinating artist and genius something-designer as soon as you're coked out of your skull at some famous DJ's party.

3. Nicky Digital. Gallery M photo #63244: "Oh my goodness, Sasha! Those purple sparkly spankex, and that Strawberry Shortcake OshKosh B'Gosh blouse, and your little disco purse full of cocaine, and the necklace made out of old combs - girl, you're so fabulous, I could just EAT YOU!"

2. Nicky Digital. Six Six Sick photo #63252: Someone just learned the hard way that YOU DO NOT EVER touch Francis Fonzie's hot pink earmuffs. Ever.

1. The Cobrasnake. Jumping Beans photo #7581: It's nice to see today's hipster kids finally paying some fucking respect to Jesse the Retarded VJ Guy From MTV. His 15 minutes may have ended long ago, but he blazed the trail for the "dressing and and acting like an autistic crystal meth addict" scene that's so cool today, because he was doing that shit back when the Cobrasnake was still taking snap shots of his goth high school friends at some mall in the burbs. Jesse is pretty much the Chuck Berry of everything that sucks today.

The unattractive PR Girls at the rear entrance for press and celebrities didn't know Out editor in chief Aaron Hicklin said he'd bring wristbands for us. "I thought you didn't want to do red carpet," a senior UPRG said when we arrived un-RSVPed. We asked if Aaron had arrived. "He just walked the red carpet. I don't know if he's talking to websites, but I'll find out for you." Um, senseless meowery much?

We caught Aaron on his way to the bar filled with all flavors of Absolut. "You're fine. They're fine, but I need a drink," he told the UPRG who scuttled back to her place in the cold doorway.
'Out' editor in chief Aaron Hicklin between Mars and Pluto: If the world of reality TV were the solar system, Tim Gunn would be like Mars and Tori Spelling would be like Pluto: Exciting new things happen for him all the time and she's trying to rejoin his club.

We returned to the end of the red carpet, teeming with gays eating penne marinara. "Oh my God there's Jennifer Hudson!" one said. Ten yards away, she stood in a white dress with matching fur shrug. "Where? Where?!" "Right there! See?!" "Oh my God—I can't see her!" Recognizing is tough—especially Jennifer Hudson wearing head-to-toe white.

Then we spotted Marc Jacobs talking to camera crews. When he finished with them he headed into the crowd on the heels of boyfriend Jason Preston, who was sporting super spikey hair and some sort of biker chic look. The print reporters started throwing noisy tantrums and Marc—smart businessman and nice guy—returned for more interviews. This awarded us closer inspection of Preston and his Louis Vuitton belt and faded black Bon Jovi tee shirt, which was made yet more offensive by a smattering of neatly cut holes. He stood scowling with his hip cocked to one side.
Marc Jacobs without whiny boyfriend Jason Preston. Single looks good on him.

We asked how he knew Marc. "I'm his boyfriend," he said with a pout. That was fun.

He admitted it annoyed him when Marc did interviews. When Marc finished with some queer radio station, Preston grabbed him by the hand and they trotted to the upstairs VIP area.

Not far behind we spotted a fauxlebrity moonlighting as a blue ostrich: Amanda Fields, model from Project Runway Season 3. We wanted to know which species of bird was now listed on the endangered species list thanks to her hideous fabulous feather coat-wrap-thingy.
Model Amanda Fields and designer Melon Breton from Project Runway Season 3. Melon designed Amanda's feathered number. "I don't normally wear fur, but I guess feathers are ok," Fields told us.

"I don't know what it's made of. Ostrich? I'm Amanda Fields, you know," she said. Silly, we already sort of knew that! She said Malan Breton, designer from Project Runway Season 3, made it. "If you want you can come upstairs with me and I can take you to him so he can tell you about it," she said. "If you're allowed up there." Before I could take up her offer she flapped away with a suit on her arm.

Darling Tim Gunn has been getting over a cold for an entire month. The Vitamin C and Echinacea he's been taking are no cure for overwork. He won't even get to enjoy the Project Runway Season 4 debut: After hosting an event, he'll being auctioned off with a meal and style consultation to a rich person at some other event. Whoever that rich person is: Please take him home and make him well.

Mmm hmm. Beyond the VIP room and into the VVIP room we went. Marc and Jason pranced about. "Hi! I met you at the ACE Accessories Awards Monday night," a blond gay said to Marc. They looked good standing next to each other and Jason stomped off down the balcony.

"Ohhhh. Right," Jacobs lied. He took a moment to himself to smoke cigarettes by the bathroom door, depositing four butts in someone's half-drunk vodka soda.

Richard and Julian have been together "almost six months." They met because their vacation homes were next to each other on Fire Island. Julian did not know how to spell Richard's last name, Stephenson. "It's S-T-E-V—" {GASP} "No it's a 'P-H'!" Richard corrected. They're both Virgos.

With Tori Spelling echoing over a microphone down on the stage, we did our best to eavesdrop on Jason's convo with the blond and a brunette. We picked out the phrase "little boys." As in: "He likes little boys," Jason said, tilting his head toward Marc.

[Editor's Note: POISON DWARF ALERT! The rudest person in New York (who works at 'New York'!), Carl Swanson, with blog mini-emperor David Hauslaib and his ex, 'Daily News' gossip columnist Ben Widdicombe.]

Because it's there: Gina Gershon checks out Annie Lennox's rack.

I'm Every Woman: Chaka Kahn sings as loudly as her outfit is ruffly.

We figured Jennifer Hudson didn't sing to avoid paling to a Caucasian in the presence of Chaka Kahn. Apparently someone read our thoughts and told her to her face. [Ed. Note: Oh no you didn't.]

Downstairs, Chaka Kahn was performing in the same awful black witch outfit she wore at the Angels Ball charity thing we saw her at a couple weeks ago. She exited stage right, and we exited stage left. By the way, no wristbands=no giftbag.
Bunny. The Lady Bunny.

Although legendary choreographer Merce Cunningham was very awesome. He is in a wheelchair now but sharp. He reminisced about Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring, used by Tero Saarinen in his piece Borrowed Light, which most of the gala attendees had seen earlier in the evening. But Cunningham remembered it from 1944, from the Martha Graham piece for which Copland originally composed it—for $500. Merce danced with Martha from 1945 to 1952.

I was psyched to sit next to Trisha Brown, probably my second favorite modern choreographer after Deborah Hay. We were both at Table 67. Her table card thing was there. Instead some guy named Richard sat next to us. He's from Richmond and friends with Tim Ingrassia, the millionaire chairman of the BAM endowment. Earlier Tim sat in a wicker chair and broke it. This is ironic because he is, after all, a chairman. [Ed Note: Really, Josh?]

On the other side of us was Danny Simmons, Russell's brother. He's on the board of BAM. He was really awesome too. We had cod. He kept on saying, "Dude, cod! Eat the Cod!" There were sprigs of rosemary and lavender on the tables. "This is some Simon and Garfunkle shit!" he said.

Then there was Lou Reed. Lou works out at the Printing House and one time we alternated sets. He does tai chi downstairs and wears tie-dye shirts. So I thought we had a connection. But little monkey man refused to talk to us at the party. He also has had, said a source, a different personal assistant every year so "you know it's got to be a nightmare to work with him." I mean, it wasn't as if we thought Lou Reed would be nice and chatty but he was cold and scary and he hurt our feelings. How could Laurie Anderson put up with that?

The gift bags had a block of Altria-branded Post It notes and a t-shirt. But nothing could salve the wounds that the hero of our youth, our Venus in furs, had inflicted.

10.Ambrel. Halloween photo #2676: I tend to find the hipster photoblogs to be - somewhat ironically - less frightening around Halloween, because it's the one time of the year where EVERYONE is dressed up in ridiculous costumes, which sort of takes the shock out of seeing some naked dude who's painted his entire body neon pink and has a giant glowstick hanging out of his ass just because its a Wednesday night. Which is why I've got to give it up to the couple on the right in this picture for STILL managing to scare the fucking shit out of me.

9.The Cobrasnake. October Octupus photo #1185: This guy actually went out of his way to dress himself up as a fashion-handicapped child molester whose entire life revolves around taking point-and-click pics of wasted scenesters? This is esentially a costume of a costume, or what it would have looked like if MC Escher drew stuff that was retarded.

8. Ambrel. Halloween photo #2554: Um, I'm not really getting this one. Slutty Incognito Girl Who Shits Hair?

7. The Cobrasnake. October Octopus photo #0551: Ok, time for a fun holiday game called "Hipster or Halloween Costume?" Is this a person who is dressed up for Halloween, or is it a messy-haired hipster who chose to leave the house in a wolf jacket and big silly glasses just for the hell of it? ANSWER: Trick question! It's a guy whose Halloween costume IS a Hipster, bearing a pretty decent likeness to our old friend Kid's Meal. At least that's what I think he's doing.

6. Ambrel. Paper Nightlife Awards photo #2251: So I heard The Cobrasnake won "best nightlife photographer" in Paper's annual awards show recognizing NYC "Nightlife" and the comically-deluded sense of importance of the people who are a part of it. Nikola, if you're ready to get serious about this whole hipster photography thing, I recommend you cool it with the "artful, aesthetically-pleasing pictures" stuff, invest in some fannypacks, and start taking some poorly-composed snap shots of high school girls on heroin nodding off into their pizza.

5. Nicky Digital. All Hallow's Madness @ Judson Church photo #62103: Reenacting your own birth is not only a creative Halloween costume, it's also a great way to come to better terms with hating your parents for everything that is now wrong with you.

4. Last Night's Party. The Beautiful photo #9811: I don't even think this is a costume. I think Carl the Guy Who Sadistically Tortures And Kills People Then Buries Them In The Crawl Space Under His House only leaves his demonic blood dungeon once a year, on Halloween, because it's the one night he can be who he is.

3. Nicky Digital. All Hallow's Madness @ Judson Church photo #62208: Ok, "Hipster or Halloween Costume?" Round 2! Is this a group of friends dressed up in 80's Zombies costumes, or are these hipsters who just can't fucking get enough face paint and neon clothing? ANSWER: Hipsters! The people in this picture are actually the members of an unsuccessful indie rock electro-dance band called Disco Is Dead.

2. Ambrel. Paper Magazine Nightlife Awards photo #2271: I was actually supposed to cover the Paper Nightlife Awards for Gawker again this year, but had another thing come up that I felt was more important (turned out there was a marathon of MacGuyver re-runs on TBS that night) and ultimately couldn't make it. So you can imagine the disappointment and regret I felt the next day when I looked at this picture and saw exactly what I had missed.

1. Ambrel. Halloween photo #2683: Whatever, EVERYONE went as a Slutty Rape Victim this year.

I showed up a little late with Jennifer Gerson from Jezebel. As we were checking her coat, this elfin Indian dude, a mover-and-shaker-type, came up to us and was dripping with intentions to network. We shook him off and made our way into the main room where we immediately saw Michael Musto sitting alone at a reserved table, not drinking his bottle service, not eating the mini-cheeseburgers served to him. So we went over there and asked if we could take a seat. He sort of ignored us, which was fine, because at least he wasn't telling us to not drink the hooch.

The awards—which featured such coveted titles as "Best Designer With Influence," and "Best Restaurant With A Nightlife Scene"—for the most part were confusing. People were making up nominees, and not really sticking to the script. Perez couldn't pronounce anyone's name (including Nikola's) so he just sort of mumbled a lot. Then when they announced the winner, it was hard to hear what anyone said, and people actually gave acceptance speeches. I guess it was more interesting looking around at the room at all the aging drag queens.

After the awards ceremony was over people milled about, and Jennifer and I were accosted by that lil' networking guy again. This time he was like, "Hey, you pretty girls want to come to this private party I'm throwing at a penthouse around the corner? It's gonna be really great. The owners of The Box are going to be there, it's gonna be a lot of fun."

"Oh really? Is there going to be coke?" I asked. I mean, it might be the influence of growing up with Brat Pack movies, but "penthouse parties" is synonymous with cocaine to me.

"Well, I mean you're welcome to bring your own," I turned back around to my drink and continued my conversation with Jennifer.

"Oh well, you know, Simon and the guys from The Box will have a lot of fun stuff for you girls, I'm sure," he offered. He turned to Jennifer and said, "I can make you famous."

"Um, that's alright," she said. We grabbed our goodie bags, which only contained a magazine, a perfume sample, and a box of Altoids, and left to hail a cab. And who did we see down there? Perez, with like five goodie bags. He must've really liked those perfume samples.

I told Josh to Photoshop Perez a vagina. He did a good job, right?

My friend Calisha made a beeline for GZA, who was holding a rerolled cigar. She asked him if she could have some and he mumbled something about how everyone is asking that, and then he walked away. So she took that as a "no."

I ended up talking to Jauretsi Saizarbitoria, who I recognized as having been the Entertainment Editor for Jane (R.I.P.), and she said something like, "God, people still mention that to me." I felt like maybe that meant that I should've known what she's been up to lately (apparently film?), but I didn't. And I almost felt bad about that, like it must be something really obvious and I'm a retard for not being up on it, but then I told her where I work, and where I used to work, thinking that since she'd been at Jane she must be into the femiladyism shit, but she hadn't heard of either, thus absolving any mild guilt I'd felt.

My favorite girl of the night was this wild model named Sarah, who kept doing shit like spreading her legs, droppin' it to the floor, and showing her nipples through the hole-y pattern on her dress. All of this made her Nikola's fave girl, too. In no uncertain terms, she was the life of the party.

But as far as dudes went, I didn't have much luck. Well, except for one guy, German-born artist Bernd Naber, who lives in Williamsburg and assured me he makes "beautiful paintings." He was kind of, uh, mature. He told me that he had "open-chest surgery" six weeks ago. I'm pretty sure he meant open-heart surgery. Anyway, he had me program my phone number into his cell, 'cause he didn't know how to work it. He then asked to split a cab back, but that didn't seem like such a great idea to me, so I got in my own cab and headed to Union Pool, where the dudes are much less accomplished, but also much less along in years.

10.The Cobrasnake. Chichgo Side Dish photo #8088: The title of girlie blogger Stephanie Klein's terrible book finding its way onto a hipster T-shirt is sort of like AIDS and the Holocaust having a kid together.

9.The Cobrasnake. Fools Gold photo #8412: Imagine Moby. Then imagine if Moby were somehow even lamer, wearing a polka dot hoodie, horrible ironic sunglasses that made him look like a pervy white version of Data from Star Trek, and had a whole bunch of chest fur peeking out from a yellow American Apparel V-neck. Now imagine, if you can, that this horrifying scenario was real, and documented in photograph.

8. The Cobrasnake. Yurman Jungle photo #9516: I hate it when I'm out at parties and all the most interesting and original people have been seated together.

7. Last Night's Party. I Love It Here photo #8559: I've been waiting a long time for the whole Frilly Neck Sash thing to finally come back, so I couldn't be any more pleased to see these two young dandies blazing the trail for all the elegant doily-collared people of the future!

6. The Cobrasnake. Yurman Jungle photo #9735: If you can actually catch one of the fabled Striped-shirted Hippie Bandanna Hipsters with a Rollie Fingers Moustache, he will magically turn into a million dollars.

5. The Cobrasnake. Fools Gold photo #8763: Looks like this guy decided to give his "Stroke" Halloween Costume a little test drive before the big day.

4. Nicky Digital. James Murphy @ Hiro photo #60261: I always like to see people who seem to have modeled their entire personal style around that "Hollywood" character from Mannequin.

3. The Cobrasnake. Yurman Jungle photo #9565: Could these two Original Scenesters possibly do anything else to make their style more flawlessly on-point and just...I dunno, right? Maybe just a tiny bit more pit stain from the guy on the left, and these two party vets are pitching a perfect game.

2. The Cobrasnake. Chichgo Side Dish photo #7720: Back in his early Bedford Avenue retail days, DJ Radness Dangertough was named Mr. Williamsburg 3 years in a row. Then he decided to pack up his PBR's, ironic mullet and vintage Metal t-shirts, and take his Hipster: Millennium Multimedia Roadshow across country, giving teenage Vice readers in the Midwest the rare opportunity to behold one of New York's last remaining spectacles of tired cliche circa 2002, live and in 3-D!

1. The Cobrasnake. Chichgo Side Dish photo #7721: "Oh, goodness me! Whatever are you doing here, camera man?!? This is my lover, Captain Grumpus McDoodle. We were just about to get married again! I'm positively snickerdoodled that you'd want to take a picture of little old me! I just wish I would have known, because I hardly even put anything on before running out of the house tonight. Anyway, stick around, because Captain Grumpus and I are going to need someone to photograph our wedding and capture the beauty of our love!"

The least interesting part were the actual awards. First of all, if anyone had read L magazine, they would have known who won. Thankfully no one did, because surprises are fun.

Secondly, a lot of people were missing. Justine D couldn't make because she was in Tokyo "getting fabulous ideas to bring back to New York." Jason Ultra, voted best newcomer, couldn't make it because the L train wasn't running. The big winners were Studio B, that Greenpoint club, which won best dance floor, best venue-club, best light system and best sound system. The fact that June D., who produces events at Studio B, was a judge was kind of glossed over.

It was what happened between the award presentations that gripped me. Of the four interstitial performances we saw, two concerned themselves with representation of female sexuality, one with male heterosexuality and one with male homosexuality. The first one, by a woman named Miss Brooklyn, was a King Kong/Fay Ray schizophrenic striptease. Half her body was in a gorilla suit, the other half in a sequined white gown. The more savage part of her took the clothes off the better half until nothing except a pasty and g-string remained.

The second act was a woman in a chicken mask and feathers called, confusingly, something like "The Mermaid." She pulled a string of feathers from her panties, squatted down and did a chicken dance. Her breasts jiggled in a disconcerting way like schoolkids on a bus traveling over a potholed road. Her act culminated in a "laying an egg," by which I mean, extruding the hard-boiled egg that was in her vagina. Then she ate that egg.

The third act, of which we'll have video later today, featured a nice enough looking lady in a sequined tube top. After an awkwardly long time, a man in a cowboy hat approached her and touched her breasts. He simulated performing cunnilingus. He did a head stand. He dropped his underwear in her face. Issues at play here, I would say, include use of force and the male projection of his own desire of what a woman wants onto a woman. It seems that those are two very different things, at least in this case. He wore kneepads and sneakers.

The fourth act was by far the most participatory, at least for this reporter. It featured a man named Captain who also had a cowboy hat. I guess I was looking on with too focussed a male gaze because he pulled me up on stage. This I strongly did not want to do for a whole variety of reasons. But at a certain point, my refusal to budge became too awkward and I caved. That was a bad move.

He bade me stand facing away from him. He bent me over and to say that he rammed me in the ass is neither too strong a description or too vulgar. I closed my eyes and hoped it would all be over soon. Of a whole room full of gays, how had he picked me to go up on stage? Why did this kind of thing only happen here and not at concerts or games where the lucky chosen one gets a free Lexus or something? Why was my lot to get bent over and humped by a guy wearing a cowboy hat and a striped dress shirt? I headed to the bar for a post-faux-coital beer. Someone asked where that scared gay boy had gone. But I kept quiet.

Evidently they hadn't decided to shut the entire restaurant for the party so regular diners, a bit baffled, looked on as the hullaballoo happened on the red carpet. Michelle Nunes, the cover girl, was signing a calendar for someone she didn't know. His name was, obviously, Mario.

"Look at this," she squealed, "I signed it, 'Dear Mario, Please let me be your Luigi. XOXO Michelle." If it was anyone's night, it was Michelle's. She's was a waitress at the Las Vegas Hooters but has since moved to Los Angeles, where she wants to pursue a career as an actress. "This is my third year in the calendar. I started off with a small picture, then split the back cover with another girl, finally made it to Ms. February and now I'm on the cover. I've made it. I'm at the very top of my profession." Michelle, you are the best Hooters waitress there is.

Who we were really interested in, though, weren't the made-up women outside but the women made to wear the supremely unflattering get up of white socks, white New Balance sneakers, high-waisted jogging shorts, orangey leggings and a Hooters shirt. That is to say, the work-a-day waitresses. Taken as a whole, they're not very good looking. They do have large boobs though which I think has something to do with why they were hired.

One woman we talked to, who was actually beautiful in a grass-fed American way, was Shanell. She's a singer in a group called Neveah which is, as she informed us, "Heaven spelled backwards." How does Shanell like working at Hooters? "it's fun," she said. But after a second of consideration, her smile wilted. "It's all right." And later in the conversation: "It's strange."

Soon Shanell was swept away from us by a man who wanted a Sam Adams. The men, and it was mostly men, were the sort of big husky guys who kept their cellphones in holsters around their waists, wore cheap polyester pants, and fundamentally saw nothing wrong with treating women as pieces of meat. From the way they looked at the waitresses, it was clear that they couldn't tell the difference between the human being in front of them and the baseball game flashing on a screen nearby. Just two things to look at. There were a couple of William Morris guys there. One of them, allegedly named Kenny Kamilo, shook our hand and as he introduced himself, sent a jet of ranch dressing and particles of fried dough onto our clothes. He didn't notice.

At another table, a waitress had brought around a tray of fried shrimp. A man opened his mouth like a baby robin, expecting her to place a shrimp in it. And she did! His friend, a magician named Mark Stone (Magic for All Occasions, his business card read) rushed over. His mouth widened and he tilted his head skyward, looking like a devout worshiper or just a man eager to be fed fried food by a rundown woman with big boobs and a bad job.

Few if any of the guests who were milling in front of the museum probably noticed Daniel Chester French's sculptures of The Continents. A rumor was buzzing near the entrance (between Europe and Africa) among the smokers that Shakira was coming. Supposedly Ben had met her at an event earlier and she had said she'd come. Though her hips don't lie, her lips apparently do.

We were led up through the TSA-like security process. Winding up the stairs, who did we see but Julia Allison, without her erstwhile boyfriend Jakob Lodwick, her gray jersey dress displaying copious amounts of flesh. "I'm mad at you!" she said, affecting a pouty face. "Why?" we asked. "Because you said I had no dignity." Oh, right. That.

Page Six magazine's Rachel Syme, the entire staff of the Observer (okay, Nicole Brydson, Michael Calderone, Max Abelson) and a couple of clingers-on were in the Post Collector's Room, a wood-paneled and frescoed room on the second floor that had become the VIP area. Who else was there? Two guys in pageboy caps, one of whom we later learned was a lady.

Two bartenders were made to wear a Good t-shirt. A gaysian named Joaquim who is the photo director of Good had many necklaces around his neck. Julia Allison explained to us why her interest in Ben Goldhirsh was so matrimonial. It has to do with his being young, good-looking and incredibly wealthy. She told us she never dates guys for their money. We reminded her she had been shtupping Lorenzo Borghese, an Italian prince. She left to look for a husband.

How could she not find one? Every man had gel in his hair. They were all good looking. Many seemed wealthy. All seemed healthy and happy. Infuriatingly they were all pretty nice. And I hate to say it (also secretly have been dying to say it), they were all Good people.

But outside, in the second floor rotunda, the scene was different. The striped shirts that looked so literary on the male VIP took on a more outer-borough feel. Pukka necklaces were seen around thick necks. Girls with ugly faces and large smooshed-together boobs were clutching their phones and each other like totems and flotsam. Did they read Good magazine? Of the 10 people we asked, approximately none of them had.

10.The Cobrasnake. Spin Art photo #0002: It's nice to see Captain Manliness still fighting the good fight against things that are not obnoxious.

9.The Cobrasnake. Spin Art photo #0123: Here's some douche in designer camo playing the saxophone in the middle of one of the many parades of retardation marching through LA at a given moment.

8. Last Night's Party. Trash Forever photo #9664: This might seem like such a big dumb cliche of a photograph that it's physically uncomfortable for you to look at, but that's nothing a good old-fashioned fire hose couldn't fix.

7. The Cobrasnake. Spin Art photo #8870: Yeah, man! Fuck the fucking Roman Empire! Let's take to the streets and get the fucking word out on the mind-blowing vortex of sheer fucking awesomeness that is Los Angeles, and let's do it by slapping neon stickers for hipster picture-takers on the back of traffic signals! Viva la revolucion! Look at my fucking pants!

6. The Cobrasnake. Spin Art photo #0165: This is what happens when you overdose on pot AND crystal meth at the same time.

5. Last Night's Party. United 2 photo #1002: Don't worry, thanks to his magic wizardhippie glasses and tribal earring, this douchenazi is too fucking ridiculous to be mistaken for a serious anti-Semite.

4. The Cobrasnake. Spin Art photo #8930: Yay, a new 12 year-old girl to take pictures of eating fast food and wearing your retarded t-shirts! Can someone just go ahead set up her photo shoot for the cover of Paper Magazine, please?

3. Last Night's Party. United 2 photo #1099: Just so you know, your rent is going up to make room for more of these.

2. Nicky Digital. Loaded @ Lotus photo #54776: Alright trannies, listen up, because this is the last time I'm going to say this. If you're going to go through all the trouble to squeeze yourself into a 90's neon spandex tutu ensemble, and put on a bunch of make-up to look like the pretty little girl that you are, you need to just go ahead and lose he goatee. I mean, really - it doesn't make sense.

1. Last Night's Party. Trash Forever photo #9653: There's just something evil about this picture. Like right before it was taken, that creepy old dude quietly muttered, "Who wants to get raped for some heroin?"

East Hampton has its share of year-round locals, 12.5% of whom live below the poverty line, according to the census. The kids were remarkably temperate about the New York summer invasion. "We don't have that many problems with them. They leave us alone and we leave them alone," said Justin. "But if someone comes up here and acts all 'gangster' well then there'll be a problem," said the soft-spoken girl next to him.

One of the kids, who actually turned out to be in his late 20s, asked us where we were headed next. "Wainscott," we said. He wanted a ride to Montauk. "Hitchhike," we suggested.

Leaning close to us he said, "Naw, man, that's not safe around here. I don't know if you're gay but there's a lot of them around here. You'll get in a car and all of a sudden you'll be lost and a hand is on your leg." Whoa, we thought; this is about to get awkward. Then we wondered: Why was a 29-year-old hanging out with 13-year-olds anyway?

Burt Randolph Sugar, the legendary boxing raconteur, was calling the game. He did so ineptly but with great passion. To his immediate left sat James Lipton, the sycophantic host of Bravo's Inside the Actors Studio. A gnarled misshapen demon of a man, Lipton brushed aside a child's request for an autograph with a wave of his hand. He was too busy eating hot dogs, his face distorted by the meat, his dark feral eyes gleaming misanthropically into the field of play. As the writers went up to bat, Sugar read from a roster. "Mort Zuckerman, the pitcher and owner of the Daily News...." or "Rick Leventhal, from FOX news..." When the artists went up to bat, the introductions went something like, "Jeffrey Meizlik's sculpts in bronze. Some say his work deals with issues of life and death..."

On the writers squad, Zuckerman was the star and star pitcher. His teammates gathered around him, patting him on his back after every inning, though he gave up countless runs. Ad-man and egotist Donny Deutsch, who later played second base, and the New Yorker's Ken Auletta paid homage to the master.

I timidly patted the man on his back as well, and asked him for any words of advice he might have for Jared Kushner, whose New York Observer is still trudging down that long road towards profit. "In the publishing game," Zuckerman said, "the definition of genius is lasting five minutes longer than the other guy."

We nodded because we wanted him to think we understood; also because we thought we understood. Only later, during the 6th inning, while the writers were on their way to a crushing defeat, did we realize we didn't know really know what Mort meant. While we were pondering, the very athletic Daily News-man Mike Lupica, over at second base, dove to catch a line drive, a nimbus of dirt enveloping him momentarily until out of the cloud, his glove appeared: Ball firmly in mitt.

It was too late. Perhaps if Jerry Della Femina (along with Mort, he is one of the Four Horsemen of the Hamptons) or Giuliani had showed up for the writers, things would have ended up differently. Or maybe it was that Alec Baldwin was a no-show for the artists that tipped the game in their favor. Either way, Zuckerman's looked defeated as the two teams lined up for the post-game handshakes. This time, it seemed, the other guy had lasted five minutes longer.