Gawker: Team Party Crash

The Insider's Guide To The Tribeca Film Festival

Nick Denton — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 12:36:06 EDT

Forget the movies. As any veteran festival goer knows, all the work is done at the parties, where film industry players swap their views on movies nobody has seen. Robert De Niro's Tribeca Film Festival—a recent and upscale addition to the movie maker's annual peregrination which starts this week—is no different. The party timetable is usually a closely guarded document, passed around in email with a strict injunction against sharing with the hoi polloi. Here's what we think of that. First, the grid; then, below, the list of publicists you need to bully or cajole.

Gay Book Party Turns Surprisingly Catty!

Doree Shafrir — Fri, 08 Jun 2007 12:36:06 EDT

The anthology Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys—about gays and the girls who love them— was feted last night at a Midtown East bar, one of those places that you go to after your long, hard day working as a commodities trader, unbutton an extra button on your blue Oxford shirt, and drink yourself into a stupor. And if you're lucky, maybe grope a skank or three. What an odd place to have a party for the gays, as our photographer Nikola Tamindzic and I found out.

As we went upstairs, we found that everyone there was like the gay version of the straight guys downstairs. True, maybe they were wearing a purple shirt instead of a blue one, and maybe their hair had a little more product in it (but honestly, not much!), and perhaps they'd spent an extra 15 minutes at the gym, but really, the differences were academic.

One of the editors of the anthology is the dandyish author Tom Dolby (the other is the scarily prolific Melissa de la Cruz, whose next series. "The Ashleys," sounds like a Heathers ripoff, but who's counting?), whose highly decorated West Village apartment was the subject of a story in the New York Times last year. At the time, he told the writer, "People say I'm the gay Candace Bushnell," and last evening, it did seem as though the party could have taken place in some parallel gay Carrie Bradshaw universe. I asked him what he thought of the term fag hag, because honestly, isn't that what we're talking about here? "I think it's fine if it's mentioned in an endearing way," Mr. Dolby said. His friend Zach Udko, who wrote an essay for the book about his mother, said, "My mom hates it. I prefer gal pal—I call her my gal pal." (You say tomato....)

Later, I ran into the ex-boyfriend—we'll call him Brian!—of a gay friend of mine. I hadn't seen him since they broke up, except that one awkward time when they were at a post-breakup brunch in my neighborhood and I had to make small talk over their untouched scones. "Hiiiiiiii!" he said, giving me a huge embrace and introducing me to his friend, who had his arm around him. Then he told me that Zach, the guy who had just been talking to nicely to me, hated my friend because he had gone on a date with him, but my friend hadn't liked him, and liked Brian instead, and then later, when I saw Zach, he gave me the death stare. Whatever, high school!

'Bachelor Party Confidential'

Doree Shafrir — Thu, 03 May 2007 15:55:47 EDT

David Boyer's first book was about gay kids going to prom, so perhaps it makes sense that his second is about the ultimate straight-man fantasy, the bachelor party. But one with very distinct homoerotic overtones, let's not forget! Last evening, Doree and photographer Nikola Tamindzic braved the sleaze of the Pussycat Lounge to see what Bachelor Party Confidential was all about.

Bachelor parties have been around since at least 500 B.C., when soldiers in ancient Sparta caroused with each other on the evening before their mate's wedding. Of course, that doesn't tell us how, exactly, we got to the current age of dwarf-tossing and people sticking things in strippers' vaginas! "Straight men need to hook up with each other and bond," said Mr. Boyer's boyfriend, Ken Helman. "Gay men already have bonding experiences! They talk, they go shopping, they go to movies." But in this new era of civil unions and gay marriages, would gay men start having bachelor parties themselves, even if, in Mr. Helman's words, they already bond? "I think it's a really good possibility!" Hey, anything for a party, right? Then Mr. Helman offered cute some words of support for his boyfriend of six months. "I totally thought it would be a puff piece!" he said of the book. "But it has depth and heart! It's a lot deeper than I thought it was going to be."

After a woman did some things to a hula hoop that seemed unnatural, Mr. Boyer said that at first his idea was to do a book about bar mitzvahs, but then that book Bar Mitzvah Disco came out, and even though we think that there can probably never be too many books about bar mitzvahs, Mr. Boyer thought otherwise and decided to write about bachelor parties. "For a straight guy to do it, it would be like treason!" he said. "And I realized, that because women aren't invited, that was probably why it hadn't been done." (Except for that time when Melissa de la Cruz dressed up in drag and crashed her fiance's party and wrote about it for Jane! Oh, and she's in the book as "Melissa D." How cute.) "It took a gay man to do it!" Right on, gay! —Doree

Bachelor Party Confidential Gallery

Video Gallery [Fleshbot; pretty much SFW]

The National Magazine Awards

Doree Shafrir — Wed, 02 May 2007 12:41:11 EDT

Doree and Nikola put on their fancy clothes last evening for the National Magazine Awards, where editors and publishers swill champagne and pat each other on the back for several hours.

By the time Adam Moss came to the podium for the fifth time last night to accept the National Magazine Award for Profile Writing for Vanessa Grigoriadis's piece on fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld, some in the audience were muttering that a simple "thank you" would do nicely. But, just as he had for the previous four New York magazine wins, Mr. Moss had a speech ready. "You are never going to give us one again!" he said, and the audience tittered. Perhaps they would, and perhaps they wouldn't!

The award for Profile Writing came after the award for General Excellence in the 250,000 to 500,000 circulation category, in which Mr. Moss beat out a motley assortment of other publications, including demon-child mag Cookie. "Last year I got away with not naming any colleagues personally," he said, reminding the audience that his magazine also went home with awards last year. This year, there was also New York's Magazine Section award for its Strategist section; the award for Design, presented by one of the magazine's founders, Milton Glaser; and the award for Interactive Feature, for the Nymag.com's Fashion Week blog-thing.

Mr. Moss's ultimate boss, the canny money manager Bruce Wasserstein, was also in the audience, and one observer sitting near him reported that he did not so much as crack a smile during the entire ceremony.

It was not lost on anyone in the audience that Mr. Moss had totally beat out David Remnick's New Yorker, which had been nominated for a healthy nine awards but came home with absolutely zero. Still, a certain sense of decorum is to be expected. And thus, when Mark Whitaker, the former editor of Newsweek who is about to start a new job at NBC, quipped on stage that "Adam Moss is the new David Remnick," there was a collective gasp from the audience. Did he really say that? And perhaps more important: Could it be true?

Graydon Carter was decidedly not the new David Remnick. Not with that anecdote about Christopher Hitchens and waxing that he told on stage! Certainly, the words "the back, the crack, the sac" have never been uttered on stage at the National Magazine Awards. However! These are the new National Magazine Awards, held at night for only the second year, at the sleek Jazz at Lincoln Center. Black tie, except Mr. Carter, who wore his trademark double-breasted blue blazer (you know the one, with the gold buttons) and a pair of cerulean blue velvet pants. This is the National Magazine Awards of celebrity guests and presenters, like Kevin Bacon! Scottish singer KT Tunstall opening, but not with the song that was played in The Devil Wears Prada (though no one was sure whether Anna Wintour was actually in attendance). Carrie Fisher! Ann Curry! And videotaped segments by Ellen DeGeneres and America Ferrera!

For as long as anyone could remember, the ceremony had been a lunch at the Waldorf-Astoria, and editors could return to their desks slightly tipsy in the late afternoon. But those days are over! Now individual tickets cost $465, tux rental for the more junior set not included. The editor of the Paris Review, Philip Gourevitch, had bought two tickets, one for himself and one for his managing editor, Radhika Jones—a wise investment, since Mr. Gourevitch's magazine won its first-ever award, for Photojournalism. "I'm going to use it to defend our office," Mr. Gourevitch said afterwards, indicating the Ellie's pointy metal legs. "Tonight, I'm going to go home and let my kid look at it, and hope that no one gets hurt. It's like a throwing star!"

The editor and publisher of McSweeney's, who was there alone (no Dave! No Vendela! No Heidi!), wondered how he was going to get his award, for fiction writing, home to the West Coast. "I don't like to check luggage," he said.

The director John Waters said that he gets 160 magazines a month. His favorite, he said, is the Capital Punishment Newsletter, a magazine that had not been nominated for an award. If he were to start a magazine, he said it would be called Drip, as his last name is Waters, and it would be about "all the worst places to be famous. You know, the embarrassing side of celebrity." —Doree

National Magazine Awards Photo Gallery

National Magazine Awards Winners and Finalists [ASME]

The 'Paris Review' Revel 2007

Doree Shafrir — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 17:00:47 EDT

Doree and Nikola headed to the Puck Building last night for a Paris Review fundraiser. Their account, and photos, follow.
There are certain ways that one announces one's place in the social pecking order. Dalton or Spence. Summers in Nantucket, winters in Palm Beach. Really all out is the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. For those truly interested in becoming a part of the literary establishment, there is the Paris Review and its annual gala. Most parties for the quarterly literary journal take place at its offices in Tribeca and are generally attended by the expected assortment of nattily attired lower-level publishing types and a couple of famous writers enticed by the free drinks or the comely assistants who drink too many of them. But the Revel, as the annual benefit is called, is an entirely different animal. Tickets started at $500 and one was welcome to purchase a table for $50,000, which is the annual salary of two assistants.

At the Puck Building last night, then, the crowd was comprised of a rather jaw-dropping list of names—the writers and their patrons both—as well as the anonymous rich, the women identifiable only by their Chanel suits and the men by their horn-rimmed glasses. One tended to overhear conversations that began: "When [so-and-so] was on the board of the New York Public Library..."

At a table in the corner, Mayor Michael Bloomberg chatted with Norman Mailer. Salman Rushdie put on a brave, Padma Lakshmi-less face. Paris Review editor and New Yorker writer Philip Gourevitch mingled, as did his wife, New Yorker writer Larissa MacFarquhar. A frail-looking Joan Didion was surrounded protectively by a shifting coterie of women, as if she might break in two or melt away. Former Massachusetts Governor Bill Weld looked none the worse for wear after his embarrassing aborted attempt at running for the governorship of New York. A jeans-clad Dana Vachon spoke to men twice, perhaps three times, his age, presumably about the follies and foibles of The Street. Nathaniel Rich (son of Frank, brother of Simon) is an editor at the magazine, which has a very small masthead. "You've met practically one-third of us," he remarked, in conversation with this reporter and one of the Review's interns. Another reporter was covering the party for the Harvard alumni magazine 02138, on account of so many of the magazine's editors and affiliates having gone to that institution. The Review's late, great founder, George Plimpton, was of course a Harvard man himself, though one can only assume that he, like so many of his fellow Crimson, modestly told people he went to school "in Boston."

Midway through the cocktail hour, Mr. Gourevitch (Cornell, 1986) took the podium to try to quiet down the crowd so the Mayor could say a few words about Norman Mailer, the evening's honoree. "We have a lot in common," the Mayor said, referring to himself and Mr. Mailer. "We're both from middle-class Jewish families. We both attended Harvard—he went to the College, I went to the Business School—and we're both distinsguished authors." Laughter. "And we've both run mayoral campaigns." The Mayor said that Mr. Mailer had had two buttons when he campaigned. One said "I would sleep better if Norman Mailer were mayor." The other said "No more bullshit." Then the Mayor said he had used his senior citizens' Metrocard to get to the affair, and as such, it had only cost him $1. "I suggest that everyone become a senior citizen," he remarked. Much of the crowd, it appeared, already had. A long line of Town Cars idled outside however.

We were not invited to stay for dinner, so on our way out we peeked into one of the gift bags arrayed neatly on a table by the entrance. In a Paris Review tote bag were the Spring issue of the magazine (perhaps partygoers had not yet gotten around to reading it?); a copy one of Mr. Mailer's novels, Harlot's Ghost, which is about the CIA; a Paris Review T-shirt (American Apparel, size large); and various other promotional items (a nip of whiskey, a calendar, etc.). The tote would be perfect to bring along to Nantucket this summer. —Doree

The Paris Review Revel Gallery

Sante D'Orazio Understands Models

Joshua Stein — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 17:57:43 EDT

Fashion photographer Sante D'Orazio looks a lot like a late-in-life Dustin Hoffman all kitted out as a 70s Miami hustler. The buttons on his shirt rarely make it north of his solar plexus. And yet, he is almost always surrounded by naked models. His latest book, KatLick School, came out with its own party late last year. On Saturday night, at the just-opened second floor lounge of the Bowery Hotel, Sante's KatLick exhibition at the Stellan Holm Gallery was toasted. This kind of thing could go on forever, the book, the gallery show, the video game, the sudoku book. That the world likes to look at naked women isn't a secret, but it is Sante's secret to success. We brought our tape recorder to make this into an art project!

[Drawing: Josh. Animation: Blakelely]

A Party: Diesel Sells The Tastemakers On 55DSL

Doree Shafrir — Fri, 13 Apr 2007 13:53:47 EDT

Last night Doree and camera-man Nikola Tamindzic headed to deep Greenpoint for a party celebrating the opening of the Manhattan 55DSL store. (See how that works now?) 55DSL is Diesel's younger, cheaper line, and so they got a big yellow schoolbus to ferry people from the store over the water to Studio B, where they could revel in sharing the evening with hundreds of their closest friends who looked exactly like them and listen to the British band Klaxons do their dance-music thing. Nobody danced. They just stood around looking cool. Then they went back to Manhattan, where we hear that the after-party at Hiro Ballroom was "okay." The kids are so verbal.

Team Party Outing: The Ruff Club

Choire — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 14:43:37 EDT

The Ruff Club observed its first anniversary at The Annex on Friday night. Apparently it is a London-style "nu-rave" party. (It's all electroclash to us!) Our own Dr. Nightlife, Phil Oh, delivers the narrative captions, and Nikola Tamindzic provides the terrifying visuals. (His gallery is here, and ours is here). We can't believe what the kids are wearing today. (We couldn't believe it in Williamsburg in 1999 either!)

Party RSVP: Ed Banger Records Party At Hiro

Choire — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 15:47:02 EDT

Nightlife photographer Nikola Tamindzic and correspondent Phil Oh met the kids of today last night at Hiro at the Maritime Hotel. You know what happened? They had a good time. And so did everyone's fave ANTM crazy cat Shandi. Maybe irony is dead! Our gallery here; Nikola's here.

By now, unless you haven't been to any party with a set of speakers, or at least read Tricia Romano's writeup in the Village Voice and Limewire'd it, you've heard (and loved) Justice & Simian's "We Are Your Friends", the song that put Justice and their Ed Banger Records bros on the map. With the infectious, slightly-emo, and inspirational (especially when rolling) chant of "Because We! Are! Your Friends! You'll! Never Be Alone Again!", it's been one of the instant dance-floor fillers of 2007, 2006, 2005, and uh, 2004 and parts of 2003 too.

But beyond that single, the Ed Banger dudes are also currently among the most in-demand DJs, doing dance floors from Berlin to Brooklyn—where Justice's recent set at Studio B turned into a full-on rave-til-dawn.

Last night's GBH party at Hiro Ballroom in the Maritime Hotel featured a major chunk of the Ed Banger's lineup—Justice, DJ Mehdi, Busy P, and SebastiAn, and the venue was packed by 10, a rarity in clubland New York. I thought maybe it was for the Jack Daniels and Coke Zero open bar—you know it actually does taste like real Coke—but anyway, everyone came to see a special early performance by electro-duo The Presets, who killed it, by the way.

DJ Mehdi opened, and the stage was immediately bum-rushed by fist-pumping fans, perhaps causing flashbacks to the infamous MTV Europe Music Awards incident, where Kanye West, upset over losing the Best Music Video award to a pair of white boys, stormed the stage touting the qualities of his million dollar video: "It's got Pam Anderson and jumping across canyons!"

The dance floor was heaving, by New York standards, by the time Justice took control of the decks, and put on The Song. It's sort of odd to have a group play a record of their own hit song for a crowd, but whatever, the crowd went nuts, even when it got mixed out into Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al."

People danced, got crazy, waved their hands in the air, kinda like as if they didn't care. No thanks to the $10 two-count of Stoli Vodka. Whose dick do we have to suck for a drink ticket around the Maritime? Anyway, nothing scandalous, I wish I could say I saw Steve Aoki rimming a busboy, but no such luck. So, whatever, we had fun! How unusual is that? Very.

'New York' Mag's Oscar Party, Part Two

Doree Shafrir — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 18:02:55 EST

Our day-after breakdown of last evening's New York mag Oscar party at the Spotted Pig was so brutally detailed, we had to take a break and come back. In this second and final installment, the gals learn who Bill Hemmer is, discuss the spelling of former Jane editor Jauretsi Saizarbitoria's name (she's pictured, sparklingly, at right), and contemplate using the Spotted Pig as an apartment.

doree: oh, this is that Fox anchor neither of us had ever heard of.

emily: huh. boring!

doree: totally. i hate when people are like ASSUMING i know who they are. [Ed. Note: Umm, Bill Hemmer? Anyone? Seriously?]

emily: like, even if he was licking cornichons off arden wohl's cleavage i would not care.
i hate that too.

doree: you and david edelstein made up
that was sweet.

emily: oh! that was adorable, right?

emily: david edelstein is adorable!

doree: mmhmm
he is.

emily: i liked what he said about IM!
oh YEAH
his 8-year-old daughter IMs
AND she wants a cell phone.

emily: we have so much in common with David Edelstein's daughter. we all want him to use IM!

doree: it's true
maybe we should open an account for him?
NYMAGMOVIESGUY

emily: hee hee!!!
oh, fuck, I told alex i would stop saying that.

doree: why?

emily: I caught it from choire so it is kind of an affectation
It's like if i suddenly started being all
!@#$%$
wait no

doree: ha

emily: sdfgafgadkfh

doree: yes yes

emily: uh.

doree: jauretsi?

emily: so is there anything else interesting?

emily: jauretsi!!!
god, i tried to google her

doree: i was just going to say, let's google her

emily: in the memory of my google it looks like this
jaureutsi
jerautsi

doree: OH GOD

emily: jehrutsi

doree: i found her?
she's under "mad construction"!

doree: this is like atoosa.com

emily: SHE AND ATOOSA MUST BE
ha! jinx

doree: HA

emily: MYSPACE FRIENDS

doree: maybe jauretsi is going for the 20something demographic
and she's conceded teenagers to atoosa

emily: Yeah that is jauretsi's tribe

doree: yes.
i wonder how old she is

emily: I would guess mid30s?

doree: oh yes
you are right
Jauretsi Saizabitoria
oops
i mean
she is 35
so, exactly!

emily: wow, I'm so good!

doree: you are.

emily: is it possible for anyone to have a more difficult name to spell?

doree: no

emily: let's never write about her lest it become one of those terrible kuczynski zinczenko scenarios.

doree: omg, totally
what if she started dating zinczneko?
or however you spell it.

emily: saizarbitoria-zinczenko

doree: their poor children.
did you go to the bathroom upstairs?
they had a shower.

emily: whoa! no, i missed that

emily: i bet there have been some crazy hijinx in there.

doree: totally. and, ew.
there was also a washer-dryer

emily: i kind of want to move in there!

doree: haha

emily: seriously! i mean yes, it's a little loud and packed with manhattan-only celebs letting their hair down
but you really can't beat the location

doree: true
and that kitchen was pretty sweet.

emily: they also have a dishwasher! it's everything i have ever dreamed of
except that it's a restaurant

doree: hmm, right.
well, you could probably work around that.

emily: are we done here?

doree: i think so

Earlier: Team Party RSVP: New York Magazine Oscar Party @ The Spotted Pig

Team Party RSVP: 'New York Magazine' Oscar Party @ The Spotted Pig

Emily Gould — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 16:11:04 EST

Last night, you watched the Oscars from your couch with a bucket of Cheez Things. Gawker editor Emily Gould and Gawker associate editor Doree Shafrir watched the Oscars at the Spotted Pig with people from reality TV and the bitchy queens of New York magazine, while Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic took lovely pix. Jealous much? Well, don't be: it was damn hard to see the show over all those people's heads. (Ooo, sort of a pun!) But Doree and Emily did make some fun new friends at the party, like ganja-toking socialite Arden Wohl (pictured above with a pregnant pal). And they even made it home in time to catch John Travolta's bizarre allusion to his queenliness. The first half of their epic postgame IM convo is after the jump.

emily: *ARDEN!!!

doree: arrrrrden

doree: maybe we should discuss her first

emily: Well here is how my conversation with her went

emily: First I explained to her what Gawker is
and then a waitress came by with a tray of gougeres and Arden took three of them in a napkin "for her pregnant friend upstairs"

doree: oh those little fried things?

emily: So I was left talking to Arden's business partner

doree: those were delish.

emily: They were good but too salty I thought
Maybe I just got a salty one.
You know what was really excellent? Those little beef carpaccio roll ups

doree: yes, those beef carpaccio things were excellent.
i also enjoyed the cheese boards.
but, sorry
arden!

emily: ARDEN!

doree: she is very skinny.

emily: Great tits.

doree: small, but perky

doree: but no ass.

emily: You're a lesbian. Anyway, I asked her business partner "Business partner? What kind of business?"

emily: and she said, "MOVIES!"
I'm all, "ohhh."
Then Arden came back and pouted about the fact that we had posted pictures of her smoking weed, and said that her Dad had seen them

doree: deb schoeneman told me that arden has been going out in new york for 15 years
and also that it's because her parents took her everywhere.
so really, should it have been such a surprise to her dad?

emily: Good point! Well, do you want to hear the story behind that photo?

doree: YES

emily: "My parents went to St. Barts. And, like, I didn't go. It was over Halloween. I mean, Thanksgiving. And I was hanging out with my friend Jen who is a publicist for the Maritime Hotel. And I was like 'I don't really feel like drinking, but sure, I'll smoke some pot'"

doree: oh, poor Arden.

emily: "That was the last time I smoked pot."
(later)
"Actually, I've smoked pot since then."

doree: sigh

emily: I tried to reassure her that it was okay!
I'm like "I have smoked pot 100,000,000 times since Thanksgiving. It's fine."

doree: yes. though, that doesn't explain the necklace around her head
she had some 20s flapper thing going on.

emily: On her Socialite Rank thing she says that head jewelry is one of her favorite things, so I guess that is the explanation?
I think it suits her.
Who was the most fun person you talked to?

doree: hmm!

emily: Adam Moss hands down, right?
j/k

doree: heh.

doree: well, i ran from laurel touby.

emily: Ha!
why?

doree: her fishnets were scaring me

emily: Scary hair too. She is all "this scrunchie is a 25 cent facelift"

doree: oh god
at one point
she and her husband ran over to the table where they'd put down their stuff
because they were afraid someone else might sit there

emily:Well, seating was very hard to come by

doree: like, they had been watching it from across the room.
then sit there!
you know?

emily:remember we had to keep crouching down so that Michael Stipe's friends would stop being like "AHEM"

doree: HA
totally
and pregnant lady

emily:Even during the commercials!

doree: she was very concerned.
because they were IN the commercials

emily: Oh you mean Sarah Sophie Flicker?
Oh! Yeah, that was it

doree: that diet coke commercial
someone was all, "THIS IS MY COMMERCIAL"

emily: hahahaha. brag about it some more!

doree: right??
also, everyone upstairs thought ellen's jokes were way funny
like, uproariously so.

emily: they are all lesbians too i guess. like you!!
ok, and me
i am the one who said arden had nice tits in the first place.

doree: um, yes.
but it's ok
lesbians are the new bisexuals.

emily: that's what i keep hearing!
well I was very starstruck by my conversation with Michael Stipe

doree: i was too starstruck to even talk to him

emily: he was sad because once apparently Gawker said that he smelled bad.

doree: aw
did he?

emily: He smelled good, in a delightful sort of hippie way

doree: aw
remember when he asked you what you think of Dirt?

emily: he smelled like the interior of a store where they would sell crystals and dreamcatchers.

doree: there was a store like that in my hometown.

emily: was it called, like, Enchanting Oddments?

doree: it was called horai-san

emily: I feel that michael is an enchanting oddment. I hope he thinks our lives are like Courtney Cox's on that show.

doree: i think he does!

emily: HORAI SAN? oh god.

doree: yes! all faux-asian
ha
did you talk to the queer eye guy?

emily: Ted Allen! YES.

doree: oh THAT'S his name.

emily: I actually had a good question for him.
remember when there was that rumor that Padma Lakshmi, Salman Rushdie wife and Top chef host (ha, sorry) smoked oodles of weed on set?

doree: oh yes

emily: (i love how pot themed all my questioning was, now that i think about it)

doree: HM!

emily: well he was a guest judge on top chef

doree: ahh

emily: so i asked him about the rumors.
he was like (long pause)
"Ohhh . . . there are rumors about that?"

doree: oh, brilliant

emily: (very long pause)
"Well all I will say is that Padma is talented and beautiful and a true foodie."

doree: i hate that word foodie

emily: really? it does kind of sound like what it is though.
a precious word for a precious type of person

doree: ha, true

emily: also ted thinks that Sam should have won top chef.
I am one of like three people who cares, but it is my duty to report this.

(CONTINUED!

Team Party Crash: New York Magazine Oscar Party [photos]

[Ed Note.: Yes, these are usually called Team Party Crash. But guess what? We were fucking invited! By a publicist no less! Eww! What's the world coming to?]

See Amanda Lepore's Chest Not Quiver!

abalk2 — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 14:17:07 EST

As exciting as still photos of Amanda Lepore and her incredibly firm chest may be, they lack the heaving frisson that video conveys. Fortunately, Gawker videographer Richard Blakeley was also on hand for last night's Heaven to Hell book signing and after party. Above, the signing itself. What follows is the afterparty video, at Plumm. It's like Blue States Lose come to life! (A modern Xanadu!) And now Amanda Lepore is banned. For the day.

Team Party Crash: David LaChapelle's 'Heaven to Hell'

Choire — Fri, 23 Feb 2007 13:02:14 EST

Now that Britney and Lindsay have retired from crotch shots, it's time someone filled the unwanted nudity void. And who better to do so than incredibly overexposed trannie Amanda Lepore and her rock hard nipples? As punishment for their sins, we sent Intern Stephanie and the one-and-only Nikola Tamindzic to Taschen's SoHo store where photographer-music video director-celebrity loverboy David LaChapelle and his favorite shemale gal pal autographed copies of his most recent collection, Heaven to Hell. View our gallery here or Nikola's here.

A mob of hipsters wearing red fishnet tights or black leggings took up an entire block on Greene Street. The line wrapped the corner to Prince Street. Immediately, Amanda Lepore had a nip slip. That's probably not an issue for her.

The Taschen store is a bizarre combination of Urban Outfitters and Alice in Wonderland. So. Many. Bright. Colors. The DJ was on pop songs from the early 90s.

Dave LaChapelle lip-synched "Hot in Here" by Nelly while the freaks and geeks in line looked at each other with bewilderment. Up next were two *N Sync songs: "Bye, Bye, Bye" and "Tearin' Up My Heart." Dave took a break from signing to do the "Bye, Bye, Bye" dance.

The after-party resembled the cafeteria of "Mean Girls." The cool Asians hovered in the corner. The desperate wannabes danced to "Billie Jean." The burnouts alternated between staring at the desperate wannabes, their RAZRs, and their drinks. After someone started square dancing to "Don't Stop Movin" by S Club 7, it was time to carry our four-pound Taschen books home.

Dave signed mine, but his handwriting is impossible to decipher. Hope he said something funny. Or nice. Like a high school yearbook. BFF. Something.

At midnight, Ms. Lepore was seen at 14th Street and Seventh Avenue, perhaps leaving Plumm. She was all in white, and escorted by what looked like three fellas from Staten Island. Of course she was!

Team Party Crash: "Reno 911!: Miami" Premiere @ Tribeca Cinemas Gallery

gdelahaye — Thu, 22 Feb 2007 12:55:25 EST

If we were even slightly lamer than we are, we would start this post by saying "Freeze! Put your hands in the air...if you LOVE Reno 911!" But we're not that lame. We, like, totally rule. So we won't say that. We'll just mention that it's not every day that someone makes a movie based on a TV show without at least having Ben Stiller or Owen Wilson involved, so we were very excited to see that Reno 911!: Miami, coming out this Friday, was completely Stillson free. It's also not every day that you get to see the host of Clean House walking down Miami beach in a Baywatch one-piece and a fat suit. Style Network, HOLLA! After the jump, Kate photographs the Tribeca Cinema Series screening of Reno 911!: Miami, and Gabriel Delahaye does not review the movie.

A few weeks ago, Alex Blagg suggested that we do a party crash together in what he called "Double Dragon" style. I don't remember in which level of Double Dragon one of the fighters just doesn't bother showing up, leaving the other one, who has a serious head cold, to go it alone, but whichever level that is, it's apparently Alex Blagg's favorite fucking level.

Not only am I sitting alone, we're not actually allowed to review the movie. And while I doubt Michael Ian Black (two rows back, four seats down), and Kevin Allison (one row back, five seats down) are going to be pirating DVDs—not to mention Kerri Kenney-Silver's brother, father, and step-mother (right behind me)—there are ushers walking up and down the aisle all during the screening with night vision goggles to make sure no one is secretly videotaping. It kind of feels like movie night in Birkenau, you know, except with cable celebrities and free popcorn.

Since I can't review it, here's how IMDB summarizes the 1989 movie, Turner and Hooch:

Scott Turner has 3 days left in the local police department before he moves to a bigger city to get some "real" cases, not just misdemeanors. Then Amos Reed is murdered, and Scott Turner sets himself on the case. The closest thing to a witness in the case is Amos Reed's dog, Hooch, which Scott Turner has to take care of if it's going to avoid being "put to sleep".

After the movie, the whole cast comes out in costume and in character, trailed by a camera crew. It is the first time I experience being filmed for the special features of a DVD, but unlike special features it is not a boring waste of time. Also unlike special features, I cannot pause it to go pee, which I have to do so bad. At least at Turner and Hooch—or really any movie with either a dog or Tom Hanks in the lead role—you could just walk out and never look back. I'm still supposed to go to the post screening reception next door. Did I mention my head cold? I've got fluids backed up all over the place.

Speaking of which, if you want to have some fun, try mixing DayQuil and whiskey and then asking Paul Rudd if Kate can take his picture for your "website." That shit is hilarious. Anyway, it's really not my scene to be at a party fully of funny, talented people who worked really hard to get where they are and aren't just pretentious media assholes with no idea how little they actually mean to the world, so after shoving a couple more baby hamburgers and bird's nests full of macaroni and cheese into my mouth, I put on my denim vest, grab my nunchucks, and a-b-a-b-left-right-start my way back into the Forest of Death to take on the Black Warriors. Single player.

Team Party Crash: "Reno 911!: Miami" Premiere @ Tribeca Cinemas Gallery [photos]

Team Party Crash: The Lonely Hearts Kegger

Choire — Thu, 15 Feb 2007 17:10:28 EST

While the couples of New York were enjoying their reservations at Gramercy Tavern and anticipating late nights filled with champagne, strawberries, and edible panties, some singles were trying to figure out how to celebrate Valentine's Day without involving their friends Ben & Jerry. Enter an invitation to the Hollywould/Seize Sur Vingt Lonelyhearts Kegger.

Editorial Assistant Heather and usual-photographer-but-this-time-writer Kate braved the frigidity of the weather to watch frat boys do kegstands with Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic.

We arrived at Hollywould, Holly Dunlap's shoe 'n' clothing store, around 8:30 to already find the party in full swing and the Amstel Light keg already nearing the end of its life. There was Faran Krentcil of Fashionista; she and Heather continued their post-Fashion Week bonding. [Ed. Note: This is not a good thing.] As the two of them chatted, I surveyed the scene, which could be aptly described as School Ties meets the Palm Springs Junior League. There were more navy blazers than you could shake a stick at, 3 Tucker Carlson clones, and at least 2 boys were wearing Nantucket Reds. Say what you will about the wussiness of preppy men, but wearing summer-weight cotton pants to a party in the middle of a snow/ice/hail storm is real commitment to perpetually shrunken testicles.

Wanting to contribute something to the conversation, I turned to Faran and said, "Wow, there are a lot of cheekbones at this party."

"Oh, it's actually just a really small space," she assured me. "There really aren't that many people".

"Oh, no," I said, ignoring a perfectly good opportunity to let my stupid comment go, "there are a lot of CHEEKBONES at this party. "

Faran looked at me like a kindergartener who was showing her a crayon doodle. "Oh," she said politely. "That's cute."

To the keg! I bumped into two young gentlemen. They were friendly enough and we started chatting. Turns out that they were both named Matt. I introduced myself. "That's my friend Heather," I said.

"Can we call you Heather and Heather?" Matt #1 asked.

"Um, is Kate really that difficult to remember?" I asked him.

"How about Keather?" Matt #2 asked.

"This really is that difficult for you, isn't it?" I asked.

Then the keg stands started. Paul Sevigny was playing Motown. Soon enough, he put on Moon River, and the lights started flashing, prompting at least 3 drunken people to yell "LAST CALL!!" several times in a row.

There were gift bags. If anyone wants a size 0 G-String that says "Draft Magazine: Tap This" on the front, they may address all inquiries to tips@gawker.com.

Team Party Crash: 'Because She Can' Book Party

Emily Gould — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 15:00:25 EST

Last night, Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic and Emily Gould hit Matt and Marisa Brown's luxe Soho loft—that's her on your left—to celebrate the publication of Gawker Book Club pick Because She Can, the roman a clef that's "not" about Judith Regan. After the jump, Emily meets the ~~literary elite~~ people who went to Harvard with Bridie.

Team Party Crash: Because She Can Book Party [photos]

Most book parties tend to be staid affairs. By 'staid' I mean 'off the charts dorky.' But Bridie Clark, who I'd met in decidedly unglam circumstances, surprised me by being friends with a lot of people who own very expensive and fancy jewelry, not to mention Soho lofts. I suppose the fact that her name is "Bridie" ought to have tipped me off to the notion that she might be sort of upper-crusty. For a change of pace, I will not hold it against her. After all, acting all jealous of rich people just betrays my own insecurity over my lower-caste beginnings.

But it's not like I am feeling sensitive for no reason: "Where are you from?" asked society reporter par excellence David Patrick Columbia as he took a photo of me and Nikola. "Maryland," I said. "WHAT? MARYLAND?" David replied. Well, sorry, David! We can't all be business climbers. Speaking of! Tatiana Boncampagni, the woman responsible for that seminal article, was in attendance, and excited to be: "I've lactated twice tonight!" she exclaimed to me.

Let's face it: Bridie's book is exciting. Anyone who's ever had a crazy boss can relate to it, and it's a fun read, which is just what we need in these troubled times. Even HarperCollins CEO Jane Friedman is rumored to have given the book a flip-through; she apparently even RSVP'd yes to the book party! Alas, she was a no-show.

But many others DID show: comic Chelsea Handler, Daily Intel's Jesse Oxfeld, Daily News reporter Jo Piazza, skinny heiress Olivia Chantecaille, Seth Mnookin, Peter Hyman, and a redheaded banker whose pickup line was "You look so out of place here. You look like you'd be much more comfortable in the East Village!" This was, in fact, the case. At the stroke of 9, I took one last look around (the party had cleared out so that the motorcycle on display in the dining room was visible) and allowed myself to be led into the elevator by an attendant. That book party was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Team Party Crash: Because She Can Book Party [photos]

Fashion Week: Misshapes @ Don Hill's

abalk2 — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 14:30:36 EST

For the third and final stop on the Saturday night fashion week party circuit, we were posed with the challenge of infiltrating the largely underage hipsterfest otherwise known as Misshapes at Don Hill's. Such an operation seemed daunting at first thought, but we were in so quickly that we couldn't wait to leave. (read: Editorial Assistant Heather spent more time hailing a cab outside than she did in the building itself, leaving Gawker snaparazzo Nikola Tamindzic to fly solo.) Enjoy our Misshapes album and Nikola's longer gallery here.

Fashion Week: Misshapes @ Don Hill's [photos]

Fashion Week: Tracy Reese

Emily Gould — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 12:10:00 EST

Gawker editor Emily Gould joined forces with Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic for the first time ever — that's right, that is just how good Emily is at getting out of doing the "hard part" of her job — for Sunday's Tracy Reese show. After the jump, Emily divulges the gory details of her virgin voyage into fashion's hellmouth (turns out, she has something in common with models after all: she trips and falls on the runway, too!)

Fashion Week: Tracy Reese [photos]

I was very excited to go behind the scenes of Mercedes Benz Fashion Week (I think we are legally obligated to call it that?) because, as you may have guessed, my previous work experience (in order: lifeguard, hostess, shot girl, cocktail waitress, waitress, mermaid, movie extra, editorial assistant, assistant editor, associate editor) had not included any brushes with The Fashion Industry. Actually, wait. Once in between movie extra and editorial assistant, I was temping, and one of my temp placements was in a showroom of one of those fashion brands that make slut clothes for tweens. In my weeklong receptionisting stint there, I came to the conclusion that fashion people are pushy, dumb, judgmental bitches who drink far too much Diet Coke. Was this just a vicious and dated stereotype? The Tracy Reese show was my chance to find out.

I began my investigation by asking random questions of whoever was standing around me in the clusterfucky horde waiting to get into the show. When I told Elizabeth Wellington, who writes about fashion for the Philadelphia Inquirer, where I worked, she immediately became very concerned that I would write about something I'd "overheard" her saying. Lucky for Elizabeth, while she had been saying whatever scandalous thing she'd been saying I had been distracted by these thoughts: " I can't believe I was photographed by Japanese people on my way into the tents. They even asked me what I was wearing! They probably do that to everyone. But still! I hope I wasn't doing the weird pained smile I always do. Hmm, probably was. Maybe this will somehow lead to me becoming enormously famous in Japan, like Tinsley Mortimer! Hi Mom!" Anyway, Elizabeth, your secrets are safe. I asked Elizabeth what I should be expecting from Tracy Reese. She started to tell me about clothes (I believe the words "feminine and pretty" were involved) but I made it clear that I really only cared about what "celebrities" would be at the show. I did actually make air quotes, because that is the kind of celebrity I am interested in. Elizabeth squinched up her face and thought about it. "The audience for Tracy Reese tends to be, like, the black glitterati of New York," she eventually concluded.
"Like . . . Russell Simmons and Kimora Lee?"
"No . . ."
"Like Damon Dash and Rachel Roy?"
"Hmm . . no, probably not."
"Like . . . Spike Lee's wife?" I felt myself becoming perilously close to running out of black glitterati whose names I know.
"Nahh . . . more like socialites. Like that really tall black woman who's on the cover of Town and Country."
I nodded sagely, and contemplated asking Elizabeth about whether or not Genevieve Jones still existed. Luckily, that was when the herd began moving. The doors had opened! The high-heeled masses began clippety-clopping in towards their seats. Even though I had never before penetrated this inner sanctum of fashioniness, I felt completely in my element — the surroundings were familiar to me from watching every episode of Project Runway ever. I strode purposefully toward my seat in row F. I was doing really well so far! Unfortunately, I strode so purposefully that I tripped over my own feet and did a spectacular almost-faceplant onto the runway. My heart filled with sympathy for models and I got up as quickly as possible, playing it off like it was something I'd meant to do (falling = the new hotness!). Then I tried to walk away from the scene of the fall speedily so that no one would notice. This was tough because I was surrounded on all sides by a really slow-moving crowd. A tall, expensively dressed black woman (a member of the glitterati?) patted my shoulder reassuringly. "That was really impressive, how fast you got up." She seemed to be being sincere. I smiled gratefully and limped off to take my seat.

I guess there were some clothes. Everyone seemed to pretty much like them. There was a funny moment when everyone was whispering about whether a bald, very dark-skinned model was or was not Alek Wek (conclusion: Fauxlek). I spent most of my time ogling the people seated in the front row, who included Proj Run's Angela Keslar and Tim Gunn (not near each other at all), and Alicia Keys, who was flanked by bodyguards and didn't remove her sunglasses for the duration of the show. Also in the front row I saw that ruddy guy with painted-on eyebrows (he's a fashion critic or maybe he's on a lot of talking heads shows?) nodding out from time to time, which was funny to watch. On my way out I also saw Michelle from Destiny's Child. I didn't fall again, but I have a nasty scrape on my right knee. I would say something cute like "that and the goody bag are my only souvenirs of the experience," but I actually forgot the goody bag in my eagerness to depart. Too bad, because I was really looking forward to affixing some 'bling' to my phone (there was a kit).

Fashion Week: Tracy Reese [photos]

Fashion Week: Carlos Campos Afterparty @ Aspen

abalk2 — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 11:30:53 EST

Ah, Fashion Week: Nasal passages erode like endangered sane dunes, therapists are tortured with anxiety-ridden calls regarding wardrobe selection, and both podiatrists and Mo t & Chandon executives can literally smell the revenue coming in. This is the kind of shit we live for. As part of our saturation coverage, we spent our Saturday evening experiencing the Carlos Campos afterparty at Aspen. We recognized precisely no one, the publicists were less than helpful at locating the designer, the bar line was entirely too long and the people in attendance were almost, but not quite gorgeous. Self-importance seems to be the drug of choice with this crowd, and most of the people we spoke to didn't even realize it was a party for some dude who designed some obscure line of menswear. Still, it resulted in some nice shots for Gawker soul-stealer Nikola Tamindzic. You can expect continuous coverage of New York City's Greatest Week Ever until all the models go home.

Fashion Week: Carlos Campos Afterparty @ Aspen [photos]

Team Party Crash: Jeremy Kost: 'Not a Play Area' @ Soho Grand

abalk2 — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 14:00:58 EST

Once every kabillion years, there appears a photographer who captures the imagination and fickle eye of an ADD-afflicted public: Annie Leibovitz, Helmut Newton, Mario Testino, Richard Avedon. Wait. Did we say once every kabillion years? We meant more like a heavy handful of times over the past couple of decades. ANYWHO! Every now and again, a young shutterstud firmly, if not a bit daintily, tosses his gauntlet into the arena of the super-fantastic celebrity and pop culture photographers. Last night, we sent the ever intrepid Angelina and He-Bring-the-Party Party Photographer Nikola Tamindzic to the SOHO Grand to bear witness to such and event: the opening of Jeremy Kost : Not a Play Area. Their verdict after the jump.

We arrived via cab, Nikola stuffing his face with the last few pork rinds, and the line was still manageable. Yes, we waited in line - we firmly believe in a fair and true democratic nightlife...and besides, Nikola still had a few of those pork rinds to finish. While I waited in the coat check downstairs, the eager beaver shot up stairs and began snapping away. When I'd made it to the lounge area, I couldn't believe my eyes! I was clearly amongst aristocracy of the illest ilk: queens and princesses as far as the eye could glean. I put on my most pouty "bored but amply amused/I'm a conundrum of mystery and contrary all wrapped up in a corsetted ensemble" look I could muster and charged in, head first.

To the left, a very packed room with the open bar. To the right, a very packed room with the art...and the artist of the (happy) hour, Jeremy Kost, who was surrounded by sycophantic photographers comparing lenses and geeking out over f-stops and other apertures, if you catch my drift. Like Alice Through the Looking Glass, with no more expectations than had she, I had to make a choice: eat me or drink me or something. So I did what Alice would've done: I pulled out my celly and texted my Power Girl Party Posse , whooot! Within minutes, well, sixty-five minutes actually, my team of Lo and Mo arrived on the scene, ready to check some art, do some mingle, and make some noise up in that piece.

Boo hoo hoo, open bar was closed by 9, Jeremy Kost had peaced out and I watched as all the little people grabbed their shit and bolted to the IMG Models party. The remaining guests, or from the looks of them, guests of guests of guests, and assorted photographers, still trying to figure out how to charge over three grand for a glorified party snapshot, milled about aimlessly, clutching their pints of $9 Stella. As the backbone of the Power Girl Party Posse , I made an executive decision to also peace out, grabbing a couple of Sapporo Tall Boys from the deli just across from, and we made our way over to the sketchy Mexican joint around the corner on Canal Street for some cheap eats.

Final verdict: Damn. I missed 30 Rock?

Team Party Crash: Jeremy Kost: Not a Play Area @ Soho Grand [photos]

Team Party Crash: 2oh5 Tuesday @ 205

abalk2 — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 17:50:52 EST

Remember Jessica Pilot, the perky publicist whose penchant for donuts so captured the fancy of our Nikola Tamindzic? Well, last evening she held the first of her weekly "2oh5" parties in the basement of briefly shuttered coke canteen 205. Nikola showed up to capture the meeting of local hip hop retards with local hipster retards. Enjoy our gallery, and sample the full Tamindzic here.

Team Party Crash: 2oh5 Tuesday @ 205 [photos]

Team Party Crash: Farce of the Penguins Release Party @ Tenjune

abalk2 — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 16:00:13 EST

Contrary to popular belief, sometimes we actually turn up to parties unannounced. Last night was such an occasion: Editorial Assistant Heather and her trusty sidekick Kate got wind of the DVD release party for Farce of the Penguins, Bob Saget's star-studded parody of March of the Penguins. Acting as if they belonged, our girls marched straight past the clipboard-wielding meanies to the open bar where they managed to mingle with the likes of Tracy Morgan, Lewis Black, Gilbert Gottfried, Neel Shah (seriously, does that guy ever go away?) and Mr. Danny Tanner himself. Take a look through our gallery of goodness here (NSFW if you're a penguin, or a zoologist, though), and for an extra uh, treat, check out the viral videos of fake penguin porn here.

Team Party Crash: Farce of the Penguins Release Party @ Tenjune [photos]

Team Party Crash: Tribeca Cinema Series Presents 'Sound Bites'

abalk2 — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 14:20:52 EST

Rock. Books. Food. A magical combination. Last night we sent Editorial Assistant Heather and Gawker lensperson Nikola Tamindzic down to the Tribeca Cinema Gallery to check out the scene at Alex Kapranos' Sound Bites book party. Join them after the jump.

I have to admit, I'm a little wary when it comes to books written by musicians. It probably has something to do with the "book" of "poetry" that Jewel wrote back in the day: for a while I felt inadequate because I didn't get it. It happened again when Billy Corgan did the same thing. After a little soul searching, a little quasi-emo brooding and some disgusted looks from my friends, I managed to figure out that it wasn't me, it was them: the "books" were absolute crap.

Standing in the Park Slope Barnes & Noble last week (yeah, what? I live in Park Slope. Shut it.), I was reluctant to pick up Alex Kapranos' Sound Bites, a partial compilation of the Franz Ferdinand frontman's foodie columns in the UK Guardian and previously unpublished material documenting his gastronomic adventures around the world. Thumbing through the book, however, I discovered sharp, witty humor and highly entertaining writing.

This past weekend I got an invitation to the party celebrating the book's release. The fact that Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Brasserie (I'm a huge Bourdian fan) was catering the event, and my being a complete sucker for awkward interactions with celebrities, guaranteed my attendance. I almost got lost in Tribeca just so I could stuff my face with some incredible mini-burgers and have Nikola Tamindzic chastise me for eating the bun with the burger.

Whatever. A model I am not.

In any case, food was the order of the evening: Stations set up all around the Tribeca Cinemas Gallery reflected the international delights that Alex both grew up with (yum, haggis), and experienced on tour. The crowd was mostly low-key and unfamiliar, sprinkled with a few droppable names (Daniel Kessler from Interpol; the boys from We Are Scientists). Kapranos himself was highly gracious and actually understood my half-breed Australian accent. Overall, it was fairly uneventful - no girl claiming paternity, no boobs, no awkward dancing. The night was about two things: the food and the music. And of that, there was plenty. Enjoy our gallery, and see Nikola's full gallery here.

Team Party Crash: Tribeca Cinema Series Presents Sound Bites [photos]

Team Party Crash: High Voltage @ Sutra

abalk2 — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 15:30:08 EST

We know, sweet children, that you've missed the galleries of LES hipstards. For that, we offer our sincerest apologies. Fear not, however, because Nikola Tamindzic has returned from shooting dirty sluts in Vegas and is back to his regular schedule of shooting dirty sluts in NYC. Last night we sent him to survey the High Voltage scene at Sutra, which hosted the debut DJ set from the totally talented Andrew WK. That's right, the guy who bought your eardrums to orgasm with such hits as "It's Time to Party", "Love Live the Party", "Party Hard" and our personal favorite, "Party Till You Puke" has gone and donned a pair of headphones and iPod and calls himself a DJ.

Awesome.

So, quit your pining and satiate your desire for visual stimulation in our gallery of drunken debauchery. There's even more juicy goodness in Nikola's probably NSFW gallery, so don't say we never gave you anything.

High Voltage @ Sutra [photos]

Team Party Crash: 'Vice' Magazine Girls Issue at 205

Doree Shafrir — Thu, 18 Jan 2007 16:00:47 EST

Remember when you picked up your first issue of Vice back in, like, 1999, and you were all, "OMG, this magazine is like, sooo cool! Do's and Don'ts! It's like Glamour but more hilarious!" It was like they were the kids in high school who knew the code word to buy coke and you were stuck smoking pot in your basement with your loser drama nerd friends. Or, you know, something like that. Then you grew a little older, and a little wiser, and you realized that now you knew the code words too, and Vice was still doing the same old shit, and it was a little less funny and a little more lame. But when we heard that they were having a party at notorious LES coke den 205, we decided to send Associate Editor Doree Shafrir and Photog Kate to see if anyone still cared. After the jump, their impressions and, of course, the photo gallery.

So this was supposed to be the "Girls" issue, and indeed, the issue itself is filled with girls—girls telling you how to sell your stinky underwear to perverts on the Internet, girls making out with each other, weird loner girls attempting to be "normal," girls dressed like leprechauns ... Pretty par for the course, it would seem. But the party was filled with a whole bunch of dudes. Bearded dudes. Jewfro'd dudes. Plaid-wearing dudes. The "cute guy sandwich" dudes of Jane Virgin Sarah fame (seen above with comely Editorial Assistant Heather).

Those quibbles aside, once again, I felt like I was on the Blue States Lose beat—it was like they'd run a shuttle bus from the Bedford L stop straight to the corner of Stanton and Chrystie. There are fun games you can play with these people. For example, it's fun to count the number of girls wearing hats that look like they came off the set of the video for Puttin' on the Ritz. It's also fun to pull on people's beards to see if they're real. Overall, though, the whole evening left us feeling kind of nostalgic. It reminded us of that scene in Breaking Away when Dennis Quaid's character is all bummed out about his life: "These college kids out here, they're never gonna get old. Or out of shape. Cuz new ones come along every year."

Vice Magazine "Girls" Party [Photos]

Team Party Crash: Icons of the Meatpacking District @ Theory

Alex Blagg — Thu, 18 Jan 2007 14:00:11 EST

Being the fiends for misery that we are, an event called "Icons of the Meatpacking District" suggested too much loathing for us to resist. Imagining a grotesque orgy of models, bottles, striped shirts, pointy cowboy boots, doormen and cocaine, BWE's Alex Blagg and his camera-wielding pal Nina Westervelt steeled their souls and ventured deep into the dark waters of Theory hoping to capture this spectacle and claim it for science. Unfortunately, all they managed to find was a who's who of who cares. Take a gander through our gallery and enjoy the meatiness of it all.

Icons of the Meatpacking District @ Theory [Photos]

Team Party Crash: The Last Magazine Party @ Visionaire Gallery

Doree Shafrir — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 15:00:34 EST

We've long heard of a fabled downtown Manhattan scene that's at the nexus of art, fashion, and media. This scene, one hears, is filled with impossibly thin people with asymmetrical haircuts and skinny jeans, who all have vague jobs as "stylists" or "designers" (of what, one wonders?), and have an air of trust-fundedness that's even stronger than their Williamsburg counterparts. Last evening, Gawker Associate Editor Doree Shafrir and fill-in photographer Alice Wetterlund stumbled upon said scene at a launch party for The Last Magazine, a big fancy coffee table book that chronicles a whole bunch of independent magazines, at Visionaire Gallery, where they learned that the audience for Blue States Lose is a lot larger than they'd ever suspected. (The evidence, such as it is, can be found here.)

Feeling woefully underdressed, or at least woefully unfashionable, I arrived at Visionaire Gallery, the "spatial extension" of ber-limited-edition and fancy Visionaire magazine. Lining the walls were issues of various artsy magazines, from familiar ones like the now-deceased FACE to more 'zine-y publications. Everything, and everyone, was very high-concept—they were all working on projects, or had their own fashion labels I'd never heard of, or were making documentaries about obscure figures in the art world. But they were all drinking spiked Red Bull in plastic cups, which made me feel a bit better. They couldn't be that cool, could they?

Oh, but there's noted fashion photographer Nigel Barker! Yum. Emily got her photo snapped with him, thereby fulfilling a long-held dream. Why was he there, we wondered? Well. He had worked on a magazine in the exhibit called There, an issue of which featured a cock head, he told us helpfully. Then a girl whose photo we took told us that she was a model and an artist, and she had also been in the New York Times! Someone else told us she was an "innovation consultant" and she got paid to "make stuff up." Oh, and then we saw Misshapes Greg. We didn't think he came out of his lair before midnight, but there he was, looking pasty yet ... smiling?

But then I started getting weary. I'd had the same conversation at least a dozen times (Person: "What's this photo for?" Me: "Gawker." Person: "Oh, I love Blue States Lose! I read it all the time! Blah blah blah"), and I couldn't take it anymore. Also, it was getting crowded—numbingly so—and everyone was precariously balancing multiple cups of Red Bull and vodka on the glass cases. I foresaw disaster, not least of all for myself. Elbowing our way through the crowd, we managed to escape into the cool, dark night.

The Last Magazine Party Gallery [Photos]

Team Party Crash: 'Saint-Tropez Diet' Release @ Marquee

Chris Mohney — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 14:30:56 EST

We don't believe in self-help, or help in any form really, but something about the release of a diet book set at Marquee seemed too good to resist. Fortunate for you, not so for fortunate for the Team Party Crashers forced to endure this travesty. Gridskipper's Joshua Stein dragooned Laurel Ptak into photo duty, and off they went, never suspecting what lay in store. If you don't believe, just look at the evidence in our gallery, which contains a very small but potent incidence of NSFW. Full writeup after the jump.

Under the bright lights and onto the chins, single and double, of those awaiting entrance into Marquee last night, the carpet reflected its tawny red hue, an urban buttercup affirming yes, these made-up men and women did like fame and the good life and wanted more of it. The party to celebrate the release of The Saint-Tropez Diet seemed a promising place to start.

Marquee, as socialites will know, is bicameral. The lower level is a dance-floor and bar; the upper level is a quieter lounge area. Last night, Safe Horizon was throwing a party downstairs, while the upstairs was reserved for the STD party. It wasn't a good sign that more and skinnier people were queued for a party benefiting victims of domestic violence.

For what was essentially a cookbook, the upstairs crowd was remarkably well-heeled. Author Apostolos Pappas apparently has friends in high places like, say, Saint-Tropez. Pappas, a Greek magnate and biochemist whose previous publications include "Metabolic Fate and Selective Utilization of Major Fatty Acids in Human Sebaceous Gland," summers in Saint-Tropez. As do a number of other revelers, like Annabelle Jasmin Verhoye, a painter "polished and gelatinous on first impact," just like her new work. Verhoye wasn't the only artist in attendance. James Tully, whose large blue eyes stood out from his pale face contorted in abject terror at Gawker's name. " I was mentioned once," he whined. "Choire Sicha said something mean about me." Publicist Nora Lawlor loomed and demanded we say nothing mean about her. Moving from clingy to clingy, an Asian woman was wearing a sequined Santa costume that clung to her surprisingly curvaceous middle-aged body. The effect was only burnished by her outfit's total lack of appropriateness, in temporal as well as sartorial terms. Next to her, James Edstrom introduced himself as the "multifamous paparazzi" and the guy Page Six always writes about. "Fuck George Clooney," Edstrom spat, his two young "freelance photographers" cringing. "I made him. Without me he's nothing! NOTHING!" The younger of the Tadzios leaned in to me (we're pegging him at 12), whispering, "He doesn't know what he's saying,"

As the dismayingly impecunious open bar ended after the shortest hour in the world, the party played itself out in the corners. In one such, Janel Robinson and Brandon Conrad "kicked it." Friends of the DJ, Robinson is a "freelance publicist" and "poet" ("My company is called the Robinsun Group. See, I'm a poet."). Conrad, according to Robinson, is a freelance promoter, while according to Conrad himself, he "does shit for Island/Def Jam." Word. We ourselves got cornered by a bewildered and drunk girl identified only as Carmen Sandiego who by turns threatened to smash our camera or demanded we make out. Probably the most confusing situation in terms of etiquette I've encountered. Thankfully, Patrick McMullan swooped in and saved me with rampant shutterbuggism. In the far corner, and by far the best thing I've seen in my tender years, a banker and his girlfriend/wife/prostitute engaged in what could only be called sex. An oblivious Indian man sat nearby as the suited man drilled the split-crotch betighted woman straddling him. The bathroom attendants lined up to take turns gawking. Back in the other far corner, Robinson and Conrad, the poet and the promoter, had left. Their seat at the banquette was occupied by another amorous couple. Horace Klein, with book and glow-stick cocktail in hand, informed us this couple was married, but to other people. Zing, Horace. Zing.

'Saint-Tropez Diet' Release @ Marquee [Photos]

Team Party Crash: Michael Musto Book Party @ Room Service

Chris Mohney — Wed, 10 Jan 2007 14:30:34 EST

Last night, treading dangerously close to territory we swore never to revisit, Team Party Crash invaded Room Service to pay respects to one Michael Musto. His Village Voice column, "La Dolce Musto," has been Carrie-Bradshawed into a book of the same name, and all manner of gleeful vermin emerged to celebrate. Immersed in a sea of gays, trannies, and highly plasticized women, our editorial assistant Heather and shutterfly Kate endured a two-hour photo op hosted by Perez Hilton and Rosie Perez. Attempts to assuage Musto's Gawker dread were inconclusive. Join H&K in attempting to calculate the combined plastic surgery bill of Amanda Lepore, Joan Rivers, and Ivana Trump. Alternatively, you can try to count Mickey Boardman's sequins, experience the retina-searing horror of Bridget Everett's bare pooper, or check out a little man-love action between Perez Hilton and Gatecrasher's Ben Widdicombe. Proceed at your own risk to the gallery, or engulf Kate's engorged version. A few NSFW traps scattered here and there, so consider yourself warned.

Michael Musto Book Party @ Room Service [Photos]

Team Party Crash: New Year's Eve with Motherfucker & Trash

Chris Mohney — Tue, 02 Jan 2007 12:20:11 EST

The "new" year of 2007 already feels a little old and tired, or maybe that's just our liver talking. Such is the life we live, and the same is true with Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic, who made the nightlife rounds while 2006 expired messily in hundreds of filthy bathroom stalls all over town. Nikola braved the fleshy mobs of two events, presented for sober reflection. First up is the Motherfucker party at Rebel (Nikola's gallery here), an establishment deemed "popular with the rivethead subcrowd" of the goth species. If that's not enough to sate your implacable lust for questionable body parts and inevitable nipple-licking, turn your jaundiced eye to Trash at Rififi (Nikola's gallery here). The go-go dance contest comes with bonus "passed out in rainy gutter at dawn" action. Photos from both parties can be viewed here. Enjoy, though note that several pics are NSFW.

Motherfucker New Year's Eve 2007 @ Rebel [Photos]
Trash New Year's Eve 2007 @ Rififi [Photos]

UPDATE: The photo galleries may be a little hinky for awhile. Happy New Year!