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.

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.

Behold: the after-party for the film My Suicide, Saturday night at Home. Gabriel Sunday (right) is the lead in My Suicide and winner of the Gen Art Stargazer award for ass-whoopin' performance by an emerging thespian. Next to Gabriel is Laura Breckenridge of Gossip Girl fame. Nanoseconds after this photo was taken the two people on the left were renditioned to dank cells in Gstaad, but it was apparently a clerical error, and they are now safe at home with their families.

Interior: Williamsburg, Saturday night, post-My Suicide after-party. A dive-bar called Daddy's. So what, right? Turns out the caballero on the left is Michael Izquierdo, and he's in Ang Lee's soon-to-be released Taking Woodstock, which also stars Paul Dano and the aforementioned Gabriel Sunday, both of whom were also in films in the Gen Art fest. Stoney.

Monday's after-party for the documentary Picture Me spilled over from the Greenhouse to the Room. Those legs belong to Jess, a musician, who, like many Indonesians only goes by one name. And partaking in the visual allure of Jess's legs is the gentleman jewelry-designer Rick Toscano.

The after-party for Finding Bliss and the award ceremony at BLVD Tuesday night. Va va voom, et cetera.

At the awards ceremony, you could see and actually taste the suspense.

Moby shortly before presenting the award for best use of music Tuesday night. The award went to Punching the Clown, which he said was also his favorite film of the festival.

The money shot. My Suicide took the honor for best film this year. Jordan Miller in flannel wrote the puppy, his dad David (center) directed, and did we mention Gabriel Sunday was the lead? These guys kind of cleaned up, dominating the festival physically and metaphorically. Heh. Metaphors. Best short film went to Adelaide, directed by Liliana Greenfield-Sanders.

Jennifer Love-Hewitt beating a hasty retreat from the closing night festivities with Jamie Kennedy, who was in the closing night flick Finding Bliss. Kennedy had a sausage shot in the movie. The dude is hung like Graydon Carter.

Meet Claude Laniado. Claude was dancing last night at the final shin-dig at BLVD and he was given an extremely wide berth on the dance floor. He needed the space, actually. I asked him what his story was. "My name is Claude. I am an actor and a psychologist and a film-producer."

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

Wii is the new booze. Nick (left) and Trevor got all up into virtual tennis at the after-party for Lymelife at The Park Wednesday night. They were a little shy after I told them I was covering the party for Black Inches, but I was able to glean that Trevor is an event manager at NYU, and Nick works for Sixty USA, makers of casual European sportswear for over 50 species.


Derick Martini directed Lymelife, and through the miracle of digital representation, he is herein reproduced while imbibing at The Park. And this just in: the Japanese word for arm-pit is "wakinoshita" (wah-kee-NO-shta).


Behold: the producer of Lymelife, Jonathan Cornick at the after-party, with his friend Laurie. Jonathan may be the force behind Frau Alec Baldwin's star turn in "Lymelife." They had a production company together at one point, you see.


Michael Brown, the creative director of Lot 71, consults with a well-haired woman at the Lymelife after-party Wednesday. I didn't exactly ask, but, to my knowledge neither of them had any blow, and if they did, they might not have shared with Gawker. Sad : (


Gigantic director Matt Aselton hob-nobs before ducking into his screening Thursday night. Unfortunately his star John Goodman was a no-show, waaaaaaaaah.


Ole Schell, left, who co-directed the documentary Picture Me, fraternizes with two lasses at the after-party for Gigantic. Picture Me is a documentary about models, including but not limited to his co-director Sara Ziff, his girlfriend at the time. It will be screened on April 6, but that puppy is sold out.


"Her name was Kaki, she was a show girl, with yellow" ... Oh you know that tune. Kaki Stergiou is Gen Art's event coordinator, and she coordinated the shit out of this film festival. She was gracious enough to pose next to a pole made for stripping at the after-party for Gigantic at 1OAK Thursday night.


At the after-party for Gigantic, we begin with David Bates (aka Davidjunior.com), the Gen Art video wizard. On the right is Kimberly Freeman who is a video apprentice, and in the middle is Aryn Cole, who had an interesting role as an extra in one (1) scene in Gigantic. The scene is certainly one of the weirdest hand-job scenes you will ever see on the big screen. She said it was an awkward scene to shoot. There were a few men and a few women involved. Compounding the awkwardness was that it was so awkward that the actors could not discuss how awkward it was. "The men were sweating," she said. MOURN NOT FOR HER INJURED CHASTITY! Aryn did not actually touch a dorkus, of course, but instead manipulated a styrofoam man-unit.


Paul Dano stars in Gigantic, and for the sadists among you, yes, he does get the crap beaten out of him yet again on-screen. No milk-shake action in this one though.

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

National Book Critics Circle Awards attendees congregate at the crossroads of two dying industries (books, news, what have you) on Thursday night at the New School. Friendly yet unsolicited advice to NBCC: the ceremony should have been about 15 minutes shorter. Unexpected development: Ron Charles, the nerdy senior editor at the Washington Post's Book World is actually the funniest bastard in the whole world. Charles took home an award for criticism and encouraged his fellow scribes to think and write in reader-friendly modes rather than acting like jerks.


Ariel Sabar, left, took home the prize for best autobiography. His book, My Father's Paradise: A Son's Search for His Jewish Past in Kurdish Iraq, is about a son's search for his Jewish past in Iraq, and also contains some nice recipes. To his right is Helene Cooper, who covers the White House for the Times. Her book, The House at Sugar Beach: In Search of a Lost African Childhood, was nominated in the autobiography category, which is cool, but, she lost. (Shortly after this photo was taken she shanked Ariel.) Asked if she had any juicy dirt on Obama, she replied, "Yes, but not for Gawker." Tease!


New York Times man-in-the-trenches Dexter Filkins (second from right) took home the prize for general nonfiction for The Forever War, which I happened to have read. This was a fine book and is suitable for those interested in Iraq, the war on terror, Afghanistan, Calvinism, the marine corps, journalism, astrojunk, and current affairs. Shortly after this photo was taken the blonde woman on the left, a book publicist, lapsed into a fugue state and then vanished into thin air.


Dexter responded to several questions submitted via electronic mail. Please feel free to read them, or just fax them to your friends and move on to other activities.

Q: You wrote that it's actually challenging just talking to people who have not been to Iraq. Is that still true?

A: War is so intense and so strange that it is difficult to talk with anyone who hasn't gone through one. The war in Iraq, in particular, was heartbreaking, and so, at least in my case, I found myself resenting the 99 percent of humanity that had not been through it. I'm coming around, though. It's nice on the outside.

Q: Have the film rights to your book been purchased?

No, they have not. I tried to write a visual book—it's a series of vignettes. The book doesn't have a plot, and it doesn't make an argument, so I think it would be tricky to screen the thing in its entirety. But I think many of the vignettes would move pretty easily to the screen.

Q: Do you buy CDs or download music? What are some songs/bands you've purchased lately?

A large part of me died in Iraq, I think, or at least went into hibernation. I used to listen to music all the time, classical mostly, and in Iraq I stopped. I stopped paying attention to anything that wasn't the war. Nothing else resonated. It's coming back now, I'm happy to say. I'm listening to the soundtrack from Lust, Caution.

Meet Robert Stepanek, a well-dressed man and the creator of a rap opera. Robert related a jarring incident from his past involving Jeff Dowd, the inspiration for Jeff Bridges' character in The Big Lebowski. Seems the Dude, upon hearing a Stepanek pitch, off-loaded him to an underling, who in turn spurned him. Shortly after this picture was taken, Robert protested: "I look kind of bald in that photo." I was like, "Dude, you are in fact bald yet ravishing in your own way, so relax." Behind Robert is Ashley Roberts from Seven Stories Press.


Monica Ferrell is the author of The Answer Is Always Yes, and reported dutifully to Cafe Loup in the Village for post-reception eating and drinking. Seeking to minimize any fall-out from drunkenly informing her that she is an attractive novelist, I advised her in advance that I tend to do that after I've had 14 or 15 drinks. Unfortunately, advising her of this in advance induced the vaguely awkward effect it was meant to avert. An FSG man loiters scarf-tastically in the background.

You can find more of Stephen's work here.

I saw two options. Either start snapping the shutter and pressing the flesh and risk the old "Who the fuck are you?" treatment, or attempt to be above-board and identify myself as a freelance photographer and writer, which I am. In the sweltering jungles of Cambodia, where I received my baptism by fire as a journalist and aspiring heroin addict, I learned that, as a reporter, you play it straight with your subjects, and that's exactly what I did with Ronn (sic) Torossian.

BAD FUCKING IDEA!

I walked up to him and said, "Hey there, I'm a freelance writer and photographer, you mind if I start taking some shots?"

He asked me who I write for, and I told him I've written for the New York Times, the New York Post, and Time Out, all of which is true. But then he asked me if I was there on an assignment, and I hesitantly replied in the affirmative.

"Who assigned you," Mr. Grammar (sic) Torossian pressed.

It was like the world went dark, and I heard the cries of a thousand anguished souls burning and writhing in the Spirit World.

"Gawker."

I honestly thought he might serve me an ass-kicking right on the spot, but at first all he did was tell me not to take any pictures. He then disappeared from the conference room, though, and I had a feeling he was about to affect my ejection, which he did.

"Nothing personal, but do you read Gawker's posts on me?"

I did not say, "Yes, and they're just delicious!"

I did not say, "Yes, it's really refreshing to see an asshole actually being held accountable for his ineptitude, meanness of spirit, and thuggish behavior."

I tried to reason with him, to explain I was just there to ask questions, not do a back-alley hatchet job. That I wrote for the Times in 1958 once, and that I have my reputation as a failed journalist to protect.

"You could tell CNN that I am God, but I'm not going to let you cover this event. You'll get a good story out of this about how you were bounced." (I hadn't considered that angle until he suggested it.)

"There's no discussion about this," a security guy in a bad blazer chimed in.

So, I left, disoriented. I looked at my hand and saw I still had a water bottle from 5W's kitchen.

I walked down 6th Avenue feeling like I had let the readers of Gawker down, that they now had to pay the price for my naïve, mid-western inclination – an inclination burnished in the sweltering jungles of Cambodia – to speak Truth to Publicists, and in particular to a publicist named Ronn (sic) Torossian.

Journalism!