My brainy friend Ron, despite toiling near the top of the magazine world, no longer employs the term journalist. "There really is no such thing anymore. They're just content providers," he explained to me over dinner. He's being facetious, of course, but he reads the papers and gets angry just like you and me.
He offered this opinion as we compared notes on the ample and glowing coverage bestowed upon the recent Black and White ball (B&WB, for short) staged by Christie’s, which this writer attended, and about which he has much to say. (Oh dear.)Despite posturing, this column gets few marks for journalistic integrity. (We're actually comfortable being attributed with original B&WB-thrower Truman Capote's assessment of Jack Kerouac's On the Road—"It's just typing.") But one first-year CJS (yep, that's Columbia Journalism School) trick we do love to turn here is offering full disclosure. Here goes: I actually had fun. (Surprise!)
In fact, it was a complete blast. The shindig thrown at art- and-belongings reseller Christie’s was the best party I've attended in years. People let their hair down (with the exception of AIDS fund-raiser Judy Peabody, who, despite her high, high, hair is down, down-to-earth). And that is the missing element upon which New York’s long-carried-but-not-so-currently-deserved world champion party town crown rests.
Examples of extreme fun:
1. Cornering and asking Dominick Dunne about his last Vanity Fair column's idea-reincarnation that there's more to the death of columnist Dorothy Kilgallen (the gossipeuse who got the only press interview with JFK conspiracy-theorist fixation Jack Ruby). I won't print his fascinating response—the poor guy has been through that wringer enough, don't you think? I didn't ask his permission, but Dominick, if you read this, I'm sending my signed copy of David Scheim's Contract on America to you—can I get it back?
2. Chatting up original and repeat B&WB bandleader Peter Duchin, seemingly mid-song, and finding him still boyishly and exuberantly thrilled to be driving the music at a big swinging party. After the party I read that a DJ replaced him later on in the evening, and when he was visibly upset a public relations woman told him, "Well, Peter, you can't play all night." (Daily News columnist Ben Widdicombe didn’t name her; the evening's spokesperson was Harriet Weintraub.) I have to wonder, why wasn't this worked out before? I didn't seem to notice enough bright young things desperate for disco to warrant removing a legend from the stage, but maybe they came thronging in after I left.
3. Watching attractive socialite Lauren DuPont shift gears between exulting over the sales success of her new jewelry line at Barneys New York and lamenting the Daily News
revelation that the exact same store had her home address on display at the nearby Mrs. John L. Strong stationer outpost.
(Update: A. The pricey jewelry is very attractive. B. The revered Upper East Side paper- product printer goofed big time when they first publicly defended their customer trust betrayal by implying that displaying clients’ letterhead was standard operating procedure. Not only is it a no-no to reveal a client’s personal info like address and phone number; it is also, in the rarefied ether of Mrs. John L. Strong, horrendously wrong to reveal the color, placement, leading, and kerning of a client’s admittedly limited choice of motifs decoratifs, i.e. bumblebee, pineapple, etc. Ms. DuPont, when asked on the record, would only confirm that she "was disappointed.")
4. Wearing a mask and for a few fleeting moments not caring about who is who, and what not to say, and perhaps even worse, putting on devil's horns now and then for a trial comment.
A masked ball can be a hoot. Face it.
It might have been even more fun if more people knew (much less followed) the standard rules of a masked ball, which to my understanding (learned in New Orleans one year) includes the following basics:
1. No removal of masks until midnight or some other designated witching hour.
2. No one allowed in without a mask (basic black with elastic string and those two funny metal ends are perfectly acceptable, and they should be available at the door).
3. No outing yourself or others with every handshake. Guessing is of course allowed but need not be acknowledged.
In Venice I don't know what they do, but my limited knowledge is revealed on National Public Radio, who interviewed me.
Inarguably, the event came off.
But no one, at least in the media I'm exposed to, seemed to pick up on the ironies at hand, which include (but are not limited to):
1. The first event was a private, personal affair and this was a commercial effort, thus signifying the replacement in our culture of society by commerce.
2. The original host, newly reanimated author and pop culture oddity Truman Capote, despite (or perhaps because of) the evening's success, suffered one of history's most public and humiliating social downfalls.
3. The raison d'etre of this gathering was the wholesale selling off of the former contents of the Plaza Hotel and its conversion into condos, signifying (to this bystander at least) a Manhattan debacle on a par with (okay below, but close) the tearing down of the former Penn Station.
I didn't see a soul touring the galleries of mixed provenance furnishings that were up for grabs (although even from far away the Ivana-era gilding was unmistakable), yet the papers report that the next day's sale was a winner, so it goes to show what I know, which is nothing.
If You Build It They Will Come
That chestnut is being floated once again, this time by real estate developers and the like in Aspen, Colorado, where the big news is the planned massive expansion of nearby (and relatively sleepy) Snowmass Village. The Aspen Valley ran out of room about ten years ago, unless you have the money and political clout to carve your own road into a mountainside like, say, Don Johnson did.
(Interestingly enough just last week The Aspen Times reported that Johnson had defaulted on his mountaintop mortgage, apparently not for the first time, and that his deadbeat status was nothing new to locals—he once even stiffed a local grocer until public pressure forced the issue and the bill was paid. Johnson's publicist Eliot Mintz was quoted as saying everything would be just fine. Isn't he Paris Hilton's publicist, too?)
Anyway, apparently no longer content to play second fiddle to Aspen's number one ski slope, Ajax, Snowmass has begun a massive build-up that includes a bunch of new roads and retail stores and buildings (and what have you). Never mind that Snowmass was where you went to hide from the glitz and commercialism of Aspen, or that existing Snowmass Village stores and restaurants seemed plenty quiet the third week of March, the height of spring skiing season with tons of snow on the ground. Onward and upward.
Going to Aspen is like going to the Hamptons, which means, more and more, like not leaving Manhattan at all. Nobu and Chanel are there and (new to this visitor) rush hour commuter traffic, not to mention a lack of accommodations and middle/lower income housing for waiters and housekeepers. Of course Aspen is now filled with immigrant laborers that can't speak English (and who apparently don't object to sharing a studio efficiency for $10,000 a month with six other compatriots), as opposed to college kids and ski bums. I figured this out by reading a note in my hotel room, which discouraged guests from trying to actually speak to the housecleaning staff. , It recommended filling out a form and then bringing it to the front desk where it could be translated and conveyed. My primitive analysis found this system to be 50 percent effective.
I suggested to everyone I met (well, to one real estate guy, who I overheard bragging about the planned conversion of upper floors of the local landmarks Crystal Palace and the attached Isis Theatre into "more good retail space") that plenty of good New York hotel furniture was up for grabs. The ubiquitous luxury hotel condo project has landed here, too, of course, handled by Hyatt, and advertised in The New York Times Magazine, which should tell you who and where the market is.
So I'm super pleased to report that despite the endless homogenization via branding happening to this once mining/renegade town, the two best restaurants in town are still the single establishment venues Ajax Tavern and Piñons. To the best of my knowledge neither has a branch in Las Vegas and that is a good thing.
What One Wants and What One Gets Just Never Seem to Overlap Enough, Dontcha Think?
This truism occurred to me at the not-so-recent Self/VH1 Most Wanted Bodies event, which took place at the nightclub Stereo. In a vast space writ large with video screens, gobos, and an interactive gaming station (mais bien sur), this viewing party celebrated the fifth annual (who knew?) poll/magazine story/television special/joint branding effort. This year you'll be relieved if not surprised to know Beyoncé won for best curves. The screens flashed and throbbed too rapidly for me to fully absorb the names of other wanted and winning bodies, but all appeared to be firm and healthy, as they should.
But since the body I least wanted was the one I arrived in, I tried to take it easy on the hors d'oeuvres. So when a tray of tiny, tiny cherry tomatoes wafted by I figured, "Aw, what the heck?" and had one. A simple affair really, a hollowed out red sphere, a dab of sour cream, cubed yellow pepper for color and crunch, and a reminder that every party offering need not have a skewer or a dipping station or some other multi-media attraction. Kudos to Match Catering for offering up an old-fashioned, unshowy, and nonfattening number in this high-tech and high-paced society.
Now if only Eloise would return to the Plaza, all could be right in the world.
Posted 04.03.06
Photos: Patrick McMullan (Hart, Griscom)
He offered this opinion as we compared notes on the ample and glowing coverage bestowed upon the recent Black and White ball (B&WB, for short) staged by Christie’s, which this writer attended, and about which he has much to say. (Oh dear.)Despite posturing, this column gets few marks for journalistic integrity. (We're actually comfortable being attributed with original B&WB-thrower Truman Capote's assessment of Jack Kerouac's On the Road—"It's just typing.") But one first-year CJS (yep, that's Columbia Journalism School) trick we do love to turn here is offering full disclosure. Here goes: I actually had fun. (Surprise!)
In fact, it was a complete blast. The shindig thrown at art- and-belongings reseller Christie’s was the best party I've attended in years. People let their hair down (with the exception of AIDS fund-raiser Judy Peabody, who, despite her high, high, hair is down, down-to-earth). And that is the missing element upon which New York’s long-carried-but-not-so-currently-deserved world champion party town crown rests.
Examples of extreme fun:
1. Cornering and asking Dominick Dunne about his last Vanity Fair column's idea-reincarnation that there's more to the death of columnist Dorothy Kilgallen (the gossipeuse who got the only press interview with JFK conspiracy-theorist fixation Jack Ruby). I won't print his fascinating response—the poor guy has been through that wringer enough, don't you think? I didn't ask his permission, but Dominick, if you read this, I'm sending my signed copy of David Scheim's Contract on America to you—can I get it back?
2. Chatting up original and repeat B&WB bandleader Peter Duchin, seemingly mid-song, and finding him still boyishly and exuberantly thrilled to be driving the music at a big swinging party. After the party I read that a DJ replaced him later on in the evening, and when he was visibly upset a public relations woman told him, "Well, Peter, you can't play all night." (Daily News columnist Ben Widdicombe didn’t name her; the evening's spokesperson was Harriet Weintraub.) I have to wonder, why wasn't this worked out before? I didn't seem to notice enough bright young things desperate for disco to warrant removing a legend from the stage, but maybe they came thronging in after I left.
3. Watching attractive socialite Lauren DuPont shift gears between exulting over the sales success of her new jewelry line at Barneys New York and lamenting the Daily News
revelation that the exact same store had her home address on display at the nearby Mrs. John L. Strong stationer outpost.
(Update: A. The pricey jewelry is very attractive. B. The revered Upper East Side paper- product printer goofed big time when they first publicly defended their customer trust betrayal by implying that displaying clients’ letterhead was standard operating procedure. Not only is it a no-no to reveal a client’s personal info like address and phone number; it is also, in the rarefied ether of Mrs. John L. Strong, horrendously wrong to reveal the color, placement, leading, and kerning of a client’s admittedly limited choice of motifs decoratifs, i.e. bumblebee, pineapple, etc. Ms. DuPont, when asked on the record, would only confirm that she "was disappointed.")
4. Wearing a mask and for a few fleeting moments not caring about who is who, and what not to say, and perhaps even worse, putting on devil's horns now and then for a trial comment.
A masked ball can be a hoot. Face it.
It might have been even more fun if more people knew (much less followed) the standard rules of a masked ball, which to my understanding (learned in New Orleans one year) includes the following basics:
1. No removal of masks until midnight or some other designated witching hour.
2. No one allowed in without a mask (basic black with elastic string and those two funny metal ends are perfectly acceptable, and they should be available at the door).
3. No outing yourself or others with every handshake. Guessing is of course allowed but need not be acknowledged.
In Venice I don't know what they do, but my limited knowledge is revealed on National Public Radio, who interviewed me.
Inarguably, the event came off.
But no one, at least in the media I'm exposed to, seemed to pick up on the ironies at hand, which include (but are not limited to):
1. The first event was a private, personal affair and this was a commercial effort, thus signifying the replacement in our culture of society by commerce.
2. The original host, newly reanimated author and pop culture oddity Truman Capote, despite (or perhaps because of) the evening's success, suffered one of history's most public and humiliating social downfalls.
3. The raison d'etre of this gathering was the wholesale selling off of the former contents of the Plaza Hotel and its conversion into condos, signifying (to this bystander at least) a Manhattan debacle on a par with (okay below, but close) the tearing down of the former Penn Station.
I didn't see a soul touring the galleries of mixed provenance furnishings that were up for grabs (although even from far away the Ivana-era gilding was unmistakable), yet the papers report that the next day's sale was a winner, so it goes to show what I know, which is nothing.
If You Build It They Will Come
That chestnut is being floated once again, this time by real estate developers and the like in Aspen, Colorado, where the big news is the planned massive expansion of nearby (and relatively sleepy) Snowmass Village. The Aspen Valley ran out of room about ten years ago, unless you have the money and political clout to carve your own road into a mountainside like, say, Don Johnson did.
(Interestingly enough just last week The Aspen Times reported that Johnson had defaulted on his mountaintop mortgage, apparently not for the first time, and that his deadbeat status was nothing new to locals—he once even stiffed a local grocer until public pressure forced the issue and the bill was paid. Johnson's publicist Eliot Mintz was quoted as saying everything would be just fine. Isn't he Paris Hilton's publicist, too?)
Anyway, apparently no longer content to play second fiddle to Aspen's number one ski slope, Ajax, Snowmass has begun a massive build-up that includes a bunch of new roads and retail stores and buildings (and what have you). Never mind that Snowmass was where you went to hide from the glitz and commercialism of Aspen, or that existing Snowmass Village stores and restaurants seemed plenty quiet the third week of March, the height of spring skiing season with tons of snow on the ground. Onward and upward.
Going to Aspen is like going to the Hamptons, which means, more and more, like not leaving Manhattan at all. Nobu and Chanel are there and (new to this visitor) rush hour commuter traffic, not to mention a lack of accommodations and middle/lower income housing for waiters and housekeepers. Of course Aspen is now filled with immigrant laborers that can't speak English (and who apparently don't object to sharing a studio efficiency for $10,000 a month with six other compatriots), as opposed to college kids and ski bums. I figured this out by reading a note in my hotel room, which discouraged guests from trying to actually speak to the housecleaning staff. , It recommended filling out a form and then bringing it to the front desk where it could be translated and conveyed. My primitive analysis found this system to be 50 percent effective.
I suggested to everyone I met (well, to one real estate guy, who I overheard bragging about the planned conversion of upper floors of the local landmarks Crystal Palace and the attached Isis Theatre into "more good retail space") that plenty of good New York hotel furniture was up for grabs. The ubiquitous luxury hotel condo project has landed here, too, of course, handled by Hyatt, and advertised in The New York Times Magazine, which should tell you who and where the market is.
So I'm super pleased to report that despite the endless homogenization via branding happening to this once mining/renegade town, the two best restaurants in town are still the single establishment venues Ajax Tavern and Piñons. To the best of my knowledge neither has a branch in Las Vegas and that is a good thing.
What One Wants and What One Gets Just Never Seem to Overlap Enough, Dontcha Think?
This truism occurred to me at the not-so-recent Self/VH1 Most Wanted Bodies event, which took place at the nightclub Stereo. In a vast space writ large with video screens, gobos, and an interactive gaming station (mais bien sur), this viewing party celebrated the fifth annual (who knew?) poll/magazine story/television special/joint branding effort. This year you'll be relieved if not surprised to know Beyoncé won for best curves. The screens flashed and throbbed too rapidly for me to fully absorb the names of other wanted and winning bodies, but all appeared to be firm and healthy, as they should.
But since the body I least wanted was the one I arrived in, I tried to take it easy on the hors d'oeuvres. So when a tray of tiny, tiny cherry tomatoes wafted by I figured, "Aw, what the heck?" and had one. A simple affair really, a hollowed out red sphere, a dab of sour cream, cubed yellow pepper for color and crunch, and a reminder that every party offering need not have a skewer or a dipping station or some other multi-media attraction. Kudos to Match Catering for offering up an old-fashioned, unshowy, and nonfattening number in this high-tech and high-paced society.
Now if only Eloise would return to the Plaza, all could be right in the world.
Posted 04.03.06
Photos: Patrick McMullan (Hart, Griscom)
People let their hair down at Christie's Black and White ball.
Kitty Carlisle Hart, one of Capote's guests who came to the second version.
Nina Griscom at the ball.
Self cover subject Carrie Underwood (left) showed up at the mag’s Most Wanted Bodies party (as did Aisha Tyler), but I wondered, why didn’t she sing?
