My two fellow print
reporters and I tried as we could to grab him as he came down the press line,
but due to a combination of our neighbor, a time-squandering BBC News TV
reporter who seemed to like the sound of his voice, and an unhelpful aging
publicist who resembled a Gringotts goblin, our attempts at scoring a juicy
quote were fruitless.

A
topic that bore slightly more fruit was decidedly carnivorous—the fact that
Congress had just lifted a ban on horse meat, which of course was relevant
considering the main character in War Horse is a steed named Joey. I say
slightly more fruit because the spectrum of answers from the assembled cast
members and their famous friends ran from an instant “God no!” to “You’re
joking.”

The
former came out of the young actress Celine Buckens’ mouth, the latter
from dashing Brit Tom HIddleston’s. I also asked Buckens, who makes her
debut in the movie playing a French girl named Emilie and had never visited New
York before, for the top five things she wanted to do in the city: “Oh! I’ve got to go to
Central Park, do a little shopping, got to go see – walk down 5th
Avenue. I’ve got to go to the Empire State Building. One last thing… go to
Dylan’s Candy Bar!”

I
congratulated her on omitting Times Square as a destination, like a real New
Yorker would, and moved onto Hiddleston, who said he’d been here many a time. He
seemed determined to give me the name of a restaurant he’d loved down in the
East Village, even as I wanted to make the most of our brief red-carpet
rendezvous and move on. “Aha!” he said, having found the relevant memory starter
in his Blackberry. “Lil Frankies.”

Unlike Hiddleston, guest of
honor Tony Danza did not seem to want to cooperate—or help—us reporters.
After a press buddy of mine asked whether it’s too hard for him to have animals
because he gets attached to them and then they die, he said:  “It really is.
You’re going to make me start crying about Harry, and then Harry and George. We
humans get attached to them, and they become family members, and unfortunately
their life spans are even shorter than ours. I don’t even want to go there. It’s
on the other side of the e-ticket ride.”

I
was lost at this point, and I think my friend was too. “You’re not listening to
me,” the Boss accused my friend.  She insisted she was. “This is like
Interviewing 101 right here,” he said, exasperated. Then she stumbled by asking
if Tony would ever go on Broadway, given that this is a movie adapted from a
B’way play… adapted from a book.

“Would I ever go on
Broadway?” Tony said, shaking his head. “That’s it. Fuhgeddaboutit.” She
backpedaled, telling him she knew he’d been on Broadway before but wanted to
know if he’ll “ever go in the future.”

“Too late,” he said,
addressing her by name. “You didn’t listen, and you did a bad question. I gave
you a shot too.” When it came time for him to give me a shot, I asked what it
was like to work with Lady Gaga in her Thanksgiving special.

“Zero for two!” he exclaimed
and walked off, and I instantly knew it was Tony Bennett who did the Special,
not Mr. Danza. So between my last name mix-up and my lady friend’s ill-phrased
question, we had struck out.

Tony Danza’s a tough crowd,
despite his soft exterior. He may have brought pink tissues to this premiere
knowing that Spielberg was going to make him cry, and he definitely has
a soft spot for animals, but it was us reporters who wanted to cry after he
wouldn’t excuse our garbled questions.

While
designer Carlos Campos is known best for his well tailored men’s
suits, he also has some awesome opinions on pop culture. I ran into the stylish
Honduran – and some Project
Runway stars – at F.I.T. Couture Council’s Fall
Fashion Cocktail soiree,
held in the elegantly appointed Cub Room of the Soho Grand Hotel.—

When asked if he was dressed to impress at such a swanky fashion event,
he told me: “You know, I dress a lot for myself. I try to impress myself
every now and then. Today I was just at work, I really didn’t have time to go
home. But I always keep a nice jacket. And so I just said, hey, let me put this
jacket on, and I just came here.”

When
I brought up the recent controversy surrounding People’s selection of Bradley Cooper over Ryan Gosling as the “Sexiest Man Alive,” he admitted he’s
more of a George Clooneyman. “I
always go back to George Clooney,” he confided. “I don’t know why, I think it’s
because he’s been the sexiest man alive for forever, so I still think he’s the
sexiest man alive.”

But
don’t take Campos for gay – he just has a healthy appreciation for
good-looking men. He’s actually into cougars like Demi Moore. When I informed him that
she and Ashton Kutcher had finally announced their divorce, he was
crestfallen.

“It’s
kind of sad,” he lamented. “They were such a cool couple. And it worked for a
while.” He paused, and continued unprompted. “I wish I could find a cougar.”
Really? “Of course! Who wouldn’t want a cougar in their life?” A sugar momma? “I
just want a cougar. I don’t know what that means.”

Despite
Carlos’ heterosexuality, everyone knows you can’t avoid the homos at a fashion
party. As I made my way outside for a smoke, I spied a gaggle of made-for-TV
designer gays lighting up beside me, including Project Runway’s Joshua McKinley and Viktor Luna alongside The Fashion Show’s Jeffrey Williams.

McKinley
told me that he, Luna, and Williams are all good friends. What about Anya, who took the crown from him and
Luna? “We talked earlier today!” he told me. Did she deserve to win? “You know,
I think she’s a good candidate for the winner position,” he said. “But I also
firmly believe that it’s not always the winners that go on to do the greatest
things. I think landing as the runner-up or second place is a really good
position to be in. But I like all different positions.” We’re taking that
little hint to mean he’s versatile in fashion and in romance.

McKinley
and Luna also keep in touch with fellow contestant Olivier Green, though Luna is tighter
with him than McKinley. “You know, I like Olivier but he would always say he was
scared of me, and my eyebrows.” Writer’s note: his eyebrows are quite manicured.
“But the funniest thing is Olivier actually puts more product on his face than I
do at all.”

In a lot of ways, a red carpet is like a crime scene. As officers of the peace, the P.R. people keep the snoopy reporters and photographers at a safe distance from the fashion-crime-committing celebrities, and the barricades put the gawking public out of eyeshot. In a fabulous Poparazzi column, debonair gossipeur Ben Widdicombe’s comparison was to a war zone, with photographers as “heavy artillery,” television crews as “cavalry,” and print reporters as “light infantry” hoping to “stick a ball-point pen into a celebrity body while it’s still warm.” His aphoristic conclusion: “That’s probably why the red carpet is red: to soak up the blood.” —

For Hollywood events, Widdicombe’s comparison is spot-on, but this Monday night at the 12^th annual celebration of an organization called Only Make Believe, my crime-scene metaphor might have been more apt. After all, longtime Law & Order: Special Victims Unit co-stars Chris Meloni and Mariska Hargitay were reunited upon arriving for the event. Meloni, who played tough-guy Elliot Stabler on SVU for 12 years till he was cut at the end of last season, was honored by the charity with their first-ever OMB Child Advocacy Award. His onscreen partner Hargitay showed up—completely unbeknownst to the reporters and PR people on the red carpet outside Shubert Theater.

If it was a crime scene, though, the pair were certainly not in character. Meloni handed Hartigay something, and then she screamed, “Chris!” and began belly-laughing. From my faraway perch, I couldn’t make out the laughter-inducing object, so I approached Mariska for some role reversal. On Law & Order: Red Carpet Division, I got to be the interrogating officer. What was all that laughing with Meloni about? “There’s so much history there. There’s just so much. You’ll never understand it!”

Mariska had high praise for the charity, Only Make Believe, which sends actors to perform at children’s wards in hospitals, where chronically ill and terminal kids often live. “I’m here because of Chris, but I’m also here for such an incredible organization. Unleashing creativity is just such a huge process of healing. They inspire the kids in such a way where they forget their circumstances for a moment. I’m a huge advocate of healing, and doing it joyfully.” In addition to amazing hair, the lovely lady also has a sense of humor. When I asked her about her recent motherhood—she has adopted two kids in the past year—she joked: “Yes. I have 42 children.”

Meloni proved to be a jokester too when, during the gala’s Broadway-style show in the Shubert Theater, he pretended to be too busy with new projects to show up to receive his award, airing a hilarious parody video in his “absence.” What’s better than seeing bad-cop Meloni doing Broadway, singing a showtune version of the Law & Order theme song? He also roughs up a number of people, Eliott Stalber-style, and I must say that his guns are still looking quite nice. Hasn’t let himself go in his unemployment! I respect that.

Mariska and Chris weren’t the only two ex-co-stars reliving their star-crossed pasts. Also having a mini-reunion were Professor Snape a.ka. Alan Rickman and his seven-time pupil Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe). Neither of the Brits did interviews on the red carpet, perhaps because the press in the U.K. is so shitty to public figures (see Rupert Murdoch phone-hacking scan for evidence). Both are currently in New York for Broadway roles: Radcliffe is just finishing up his run in How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying and Rickman is just kicking off Seminar, in which he plays an acerbic English professor. Since the charity sends actors to children’s wards in hospitals, Radcliffe joked during his and Rickman’s brief on-stage cameo, “We know first-hand how great it is to bring magic into the hearts and imaginations of children.”

On the red carpet, co-hosts and Addams Family co-stars Brooke Shields and Brad Oscar both voiced their deep support of the organization. I asked Shields how she chose to support this charity, seeing as I’m sure a lot of organizations are gunning for her celebrity endorsement. “If we said yes all the time, I would be saying yes to every Monday night. Brad and I have worked together before, and I really respect and love him. He said, ‘Look, I just want to show you this.’ He showed me some footage, showed me some literature, and it just felt like the right thing to do.” Brad had his own special connection to Only Make Believe—his partner and fellow actorDiego Prieto helps put on the shows for the kids.

At the John’s Pizzeria afterparty, there were fried mozzarella wedges and vodka cranberries in abundance, but no Mike Myers, who skipped the red carpet but made the show. Apparently he just had a son named Spike two weeks ago, and I thought that would be nice to talk about, in the spirit of People mag. Khalimah, the charming hostess at John’s, gave me another scoop, saying that Alan Rickman had briefly shown up earlier but was “dragged out by two old ladies in red pants.” Love it.

Of all the celebs at the show, only Meloni and Hargitay made the post-show celebration. I chatted with Meloni to see if he really did have any new projects post-L&Obesides playing a general in Superman. He pulled out a classic line (my dad loves this one): “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” So, you see, afterparties can be quite akin to crime scenes too.

Follow Evan on Twitter at @EMulvz and send him tips here.

Yes, I know: “fag hag” isn’t exactly the most delicate way
to talk about a lady who loves her gays. How else to say it? I like “friend of
a friend of Dorothy”—rest in peace, Judy—but not fruit fly, which evokes an
extra bitch who tags along with gay men who secretly want to see her put into a
Saw mansion. There’s also rice queen,
for Asian fag hags, but that begs confusion with the gay men smitten with
yellow fever.

In any case, theater-’mo-in-a-woman’s-body Debra Messing, of Will & Grace fame, is coming back to your television next
February for a show called Smash and,
never one to be typecast, is playing a virulently anti-gay female motorcyclist
who goes around town “smashing” sodomites with a bloodied rainbow flag.
Kidding. She’s playing a Grace type again.

D-Mess hit the red carpet this Sunday for the kick-off gala
of the New York Musical Theater Festival, which NYMF publicists used to create
“the first public outing of the cast of Smash!”
In the show, Messing plays Julia Houston, a struggling lyricist trying to make
it big on Broadway. Her writing partner, composer Tom Levitt, is apparently a
homo played by guy-who-divorced-Sutton-Foster Christian Borle.

At the step-and-repeat, Debbie Dancepants made a point of
pretending to be Chrissy’s BFF, so much so that other reporters and I were
wondering what the fuck was going on. I quickly Wiki’d Mess Mess and saw that
she had been married for over 10 years to some dude named Daniel Zelman who she
met on her first day of graduate school at NYEw, which threw me into
gossip-reporter mode: a scoop! Debra Messing is cheating!

Then I looked up Smash
and saw that various gay blogs had picked up on the fact that Messing’s
male co-star was to play gay. “Who Will Play Debra Messing’s Next Will?”
pondered an After Elton writer. (I imagine he wrote this post in his diary
while lounging in a canopy bed, pink pen with a feather on its end poised on
his pursed lips.)

On the carpet, Messing was aggressively in character.
“Should we make out?” down-with-the-gays Deb joked as she held Chrissy close
for a dramatic, hand-on-his-chest pose. She and Borle did interviews with TV
stations together, Borle’s hand clasped firmly around her waist—which prompted
me to wonder where her wedding ring was. To me, their charade came off more
newly minted boyfriend-girlfriend than “Hay Gurl, whatchudoin”.

Before I could stuff my voice recorder into their faces and
ask why they were being so narwhal-unicorn, the two twirled away at the
fumbling publicist’s request. Good thing they got seated for dinner early,
because the presentation didn’t start until over an hour later.

For what it’s worth, the show is going to be much more than
just a thespian wet dream. A friend of mine who’s seen a screener took umbrage
at my myopic G-Chatus (“Debra Messing is playing a fag hag… again.”) and
typed at me, unprompted: “It’s a great show, fag hag or not.”

That surprised me, since “Smash” doesn’t have much Hollywood
brass backing it. It germinated when a little known director named Steven Spielberg asked has-been
producing team Craig Zadan and Neil Meron—who, not so coincidentally,
were honored at this NYMF gala—to make a TV show about the backstage,
behind-the-scenes goings-on of a Broadway play.

An odd choice for Spielberg, since Zadan and Meron have only
produced two Broadway features—both disastrous flops. I mean, who saw Chicago or Hairspray?
Straight women? Gay men? Metrosexuals? Pretty small target audience there.

How did the obscure Spielberg reach out to them? “A phone
call,” Meron told me. “I think it’s based upon the work we’ve done, in terms of
television and feature films,” added Zadan. “And when he wanted to do something
that had the DNA of Broadway musicals for TV, we were very very
pleased to have gotten that phone call.”

I did want to stay for the gala’s big celebrity appearances
on stage—a Katharine McPhee song and
the presentation of the award to Zadan and Meron by Harry Potter (stage name: Daniel Radcliffe)—but after being strung
along about snagging a seat by the gala’s PR team—I was very, very pleased to
get on the train back to Brooklyn Heights.

– Evan Mulvihill’s Bash Compactor runs as a monthly column in Our Town Downtown...

In her newfound diva style, Snooki showed up to her party an hour and a half late, by which time pop star Jason Derulo had
already come and gone. The perennial Z100 favorite, known for singing
his own name at the beginning of every hit he has on the radio, told me
that, between Snooki, Sammi and Deena, he couldn’t pick a favorite Jersey girl. "I’d like to have all three." In one sitting? "Absolutely."

While
Derulo may be "as single as they come," Snooki probably won’t be
engaging in any foursomes anytime soon. The pickle-loving lady came
family-style, toting along current boyfriend Jionni LaValle, best friend and fellow pint-sized cast member Deena Cortese and her dad to celebrate making the cover of Yellow Rat Bastard (YRB) magazine.

Snooki
is known for her funny taste in brand allegiance—LifeStyles Condoms
sponsored her birthday party last year. Partnering with YRB, an urban
clothes retailer that notoriously paid workers less than $5 an hour back
in 2006, was probably as easy as: "Hey Snooki, want to be on the cover
of our magazine? You get to play dress-up with Deena, Sammi and five
really built male models."

Sunkist,
owned by the Dr Pepper Snapple Group, showed up on the marquee, too,
but nobody was ordering Sunkists and sodas so I have no idea what their
deal was. The alcohol sponsor made the most sense: Pinnacle vodka, which
comes in flavors like cotton candy and whipped cream.

I spent most of the night upstairs in the open bar VIP section, avoiding the media
swarm below. Instead of exchanging war stories with freelance reporters
accustomed to clawing desperately for boldfaced sound bites, I enjoyed
Jell-o shots from girls outfitted in rhinestonestudded bras, Rihanna
hairdos, sparkly leggings and gold heels. Also on hand were sausage,
pepper and onion sliders, served on trays that had epilepsy-inducing
rotating blue lights around the outside, and a cotton candy machine.

The
reason for the media clusterfuck could’ve been Snooki’s new paradigm
shift. Instead of an overtanned drunk who does gymnastics in a thong at a
club, it seems Snooki wants to be… a mom? Earlier that day, she had
been on Good Morning America with LaValle and announced she
doesn’t hook up anymore, hinting that she’s ready for marriage, family
life or something like it. In the same publicity swoop, she announced
she’s coming out with a fragrance. When they herded the reporters
downstairs to a basement room, the most common question was what the
perfume was going to smell like.

Whipped cream vodka on the rocks in hand, I stumbled down to the basement just as a publicist barked, "Interviews are over!"
I gave it the good old college try and called Snooki’s name, asking if
she’d been affected by the market crash. She ignored me, so I tried
again. Still no answer—just like a real celebrity. 

Alas, DVF was a no-show, as was designated co-host Stefano Tonchi, who edits a little ol’ fashion magazine called W. At least Tonchi had an excuse: he and gallerist partnerDavid Maupin just welcomed twins into their lives last week after quietly getting married in February in Massachusetts.

DVF’s non-presence was no matter, however, for fashion jack of all trades Jessica Lapidos. "She is the president of the CFDA and the CFDA is throwing this event, but…" Here she paused. "She’s probably just busy." But Fraulein von Furstenberg was still OK in the book of Lapidos, fashion editor for FashionIndie.com as well as a budding designer for Tilly and William. "I talked to her once," said Lapidos, towering over me in 6-inch heels and a natural-height head start. "She told me I was beautiful and I just…" At this point, words escaped her. Lit up? "That."

The party, held on Bar Basque’s outdoor terrace, featured a viewing of Pedro Almodóvar’s Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown on a 30-by-15foot screen on an adjacent building.

Spoiler alert: Verge ends with a bunch of people passing out in an apartment after ingesting barbiturate-spiked gazpacho. So, I wondered, had any of the fashionable types in attendance ever spiked, or been spiked by, a tainted concoction?

"You know, it’s always crazy things happen," said designer Yigal Azroul in an Israeli accent with charmingly foreign, if evasive, syntax. "But I’m actually really curious to see the movie because I don’t remember this one as well as the other movies." Azroul, who came alone and chatted freely with anyone who approached him, was a big hit among the ladies, especially the two clipboardclutching summer PR interns. "I’ve been staring into his eyes all night," said a particularly smitten one. "He’s so cute."

Speaking of cute, designer Nicole Miller had no spiked gazpacho experience but she did like the movie’s central motif of ’80s phone tag. "It’s sort of funny—all the stories with the girl on the phone and everything. You know, back when we didn’t have cell phones, you couldn’t reach anybody, you were checking your answering machine, you were missing phone calls. It was so funny."

And just like that, Miller jetted off to her dinner reservation—perhaps she was meeting up with DVF and Barry Diller at the Lion? I didn’t need DVF or Tonchi, for that matter, as I tended to my own twins: two Dewars on ice snagged seconds before the open bar closed. 

He had to attend a wedding.

At the after party this night, actors were nowhere to be seen, but Uncle Jimmy was still going strong, chugging Absolut and soda like it was his job. Jimmy told me he used to take the girls who played in the cast of Annie to Studio 54 after the show. "They’d kick the girls out at 11:30, but I’d stay for the party," he said. He’s currently planning to write a memoir about his celebrity encounters—mostly positive stuff, he says, except for the ones who’d crossed him. "I met Liza Minnelli once and told her we’d met at Studio 54. She told me, ‘Oh, those days were all a blur.’ Those types of people, I don’t mind screwing over."

Another character I encountered was party planner Gregoire Vogelsang, who approached my posse as we were entering ballots to win a free year at Crunch. He explained, in a thick Belgian accent, that we ought not to be rigging the competition by entering multiple ballots (which, I assure you, we were not doing!). Later on in the night, he came twirling our way on the dance floor, literally dancing in circles around me and one of my buxom lady friends. He continued his sensual routine by taking off his tie and wrap

Later in the week, we took to the Brooklyn Academy of Music for another film festival event: BAMcinemaFest’s opening night. While Weekend, a gay love story set in England, screened on four screens prior, the main event was the after party on BAM’s cavernous second floor. It drew in fancy outer-borough residents, from Fran Drescher to Vampire Weekend singer-songwriter Rostam Batmanglij.

I didn’t get the chance to ask the flashy girl from Flushing what brought her to Fort Greene, but Rostam took a second to talk. He had liked Weekend, fending off my criticisms of the slow-but-pretty film. He did take issue with one thing, however. "I don’t think the title font was Futura," he said to me. 

Turns out Val was just enthusiastic toward everybody, since she, a "strat intern" for the ad agency Mother New York, had been tasked with handing out red nametag stickers that read "HELLO MY AZZ IS." I decided I’d let Val put her branding skills to use.

She settled on "appetizing." As I went to peel the sticker off, she said, "No! I have to slap it on you." Branding, indeed.

Downstairs in a basement concert venue, ass shaking was mostly the preferred method of locomotion, with titty-twirling a distant second. Host Johnny Santos exhorted the dot-com-heavy crowd of twenty-somethings, most of which showed up to catch Das Racist: "Get your ass on the muthafuckin’ floor. Get those titties out. This ain’t no muthafuckin’ Sunday school."

This wasn’t no ordinary rap concert, either. Held on a block of 11th Avenue where Mother occupies an entire building, the "cocktail hour" began on the ground floor, where the reception area had been turned into a bar serving Stella on tap and the conference space had been cleared of tables to make room for networking web nerds and the DJ equipment of Geoff Gamlen. On the other side of the bar, some of Mother’s bees were still hard at work on their iMacs.

Gamlen, one-third of the DJ/VJ trio Eclectic Method, synced "Major Lazer" and "Groove Is In The Heart" audio with video from Gorillaz, Jimi Hendrix and remixes of YouTube viral favorites like "Greatest Freakout" and "David After Dentist."

Over a cigarette outside, I asked Galem if the corporate nature of this event bit into Eclectic Method‘s club-banger cred. "What we do is very punk, and, because of its punkness, it appeals to both the corporate and underground side," he told me.

His manager Justin was more direct: "Our list of corporate clients is laughable. We don’t wear it on our sleeve because it affects the cool factor. But you don’t make any money playing clubs."

As the night grew old, Dap continued with his efforts to stamp out wallflowerism: "Get that booty shakin’! Who the fuck is not shakin’ their booty?" Intern Val was complying wholeheartedly with his assignment, grinding hard on another glitter-faced Mother employee. 

I blame the venue (Bubby’s Brooklyn? Way too bourgie), the lack of an open bar and the fact that Dumbo is pretty much the opposite of Reno. Despite the sober, grown-up atmosphere of the party itself, the backstory behind the book is quite fascinating.

McAndrews spent five years on Nevada Rose, following his Manifest Destiny from Brooklyn in vans he bought on eBay. Last year, he was about ready to be done with the book, except for one problem: He hadn’t gotten inside the crown jewel of Nevada’s legalized prostitution houses, Hof’s Bunny Ranch. At the party, I sat down to talk with Hof and his gal pal Parker. Hof, who was wearing a glittering blue shirt, a Cathouse-branded hat and a blingin’ watch, said of his meeting with McAndrews: "I told him, ‘What’s in it for me? Why should I do this?’" Luckily, McAndrews had Hof’s buddy, controversial former book publishing titan Judith Regan, on his side.

"She researched Marc and loved him.

She said, ‘This is an artist. It’s going to be a good book. You should be a part of it.’" Though he ultimately agreed to share the spotlight with the 22 other brothels McAndrews traveled to, Hof’s outsized personality thought they could’ve done without them. "It’s like, Mark, I am the book. You could do a book on me. Alone, and forget everyone else."

Hof should worry about the competition closer to home. It seems Parker is a character herself. When she told me she had touched some strippers at Dennis Rodman’s recent birthday party, I asked if that was OK. "I’m allowed. I’m a girl! Girls are always allowed to touch."

How about gay guys, can they touch?

"You could probably touch, too." She laughed. "I’d definitely let you touch my boobs." After all, Cami needs a "new gay husband." "My old one and I got divorced," she lamented.

When I finally got to McAndrews himself, I had to ask, had he used the services of the brothel?

"I’m surprised it actually took you that long to ask. I’ve never said yes or no, for a number of different reasons. It’s a unique situation, a unique environment. There are obviously propositions that take place. However, I was there to work. If I was sleeping with everybody, I wouldn’t have gotten access to everybody." On the other hand, he said, "If I said no, then everybody’s going to look at it as though I’m too good to partake in the thing that I was actually talking about."

With his newfound expertise, could McAndrews see brothels opening up right here in New York City, where the laws around sex work are positively medieval?

"I think it would make sense to have it… it supports the tax base," he said. "It would be great if it could happen here, but I don’t necessarily see that happening." 

Handler wasn’t the only glittering star partying it up at Chelsea’s High Line Studio, either: guests ran the gamut from art-world luminaries (honoree and generous art patron Liz Swig, Creative Time founder Anne Pasternak and party promoter Susanne Bartsch), a random assortment of musicians (Moby, whom we’re told was a big bidder at the event’s silent auction, R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe, Talking Heads head David Byrne and Courtney Love).

Alas, the rendezvous between my derriere and Handler’s coslopus, like so many things in this ephemeral world, was fleeting. Within seconds she had retreated, though her posse was still in attack mode. Soon enough, I felt another soft touch from behind—this time, it was a cheesecake-filled white chocolate lollipop that had been pelted from a few feet away.

I turned around and surveyed the suspects: chief among them was Andre Balazs, hottie hotelier and Handler’s beau. The man behind The Standard Hotel was whispering what I can only assume was Mean Girls-style disparagement of my rather short yellow shorts to a scraggly-haired couple who then turned to point and giggle at me. Undaunted, I approached them and asked what seemed to be the problem.

"What were you thinking?" Balazs said, pointing to the offending shorts. It’s true—I didn’t give much consideration to the theme, which was a revisiting of "the 1980s nightclub scene," specifically of the legendary boite AREA. They even reunited the original team behind the spot, including Serge Becker and Eric Goode, to design a voyeuristic "special installation," which consisted of two small peep show rooms. Partygoers were encouraged to sashay into the room, join in on the live performance art and drink champagne with the scantily clad, heavily made-up live mannequins.

I mustered up a corny response for Balazs’ cutting takedown, one which referenced my makeshift boutonniere, and then, as crickets cheeped louder than the speakers blasting DJ Johnny Dynell’s favorite remix of Katy Perry’s "Firework," I sheepishly withdrew from Balazs and his friends—but not before the female friend loudly asked, "Who let him in?" When I wasn’t having awkward run-ins, I chatted up art-world doyenne Pasternak. I posited that there might have been some awkwardness between Love and Balazs, considering the two had dated in the past. Pasternak schooled me, saying, "I think they’re still very good friends!" On the subject of whether the event, obviously exclusive from the outside world but interactive to the attendees, could be thought of as public art, Pasternak said, "I would say that dancing in New York City should be a public art."

And I agree, even if some aging hoteliers aren’t enlightened enough to appreciate it.