Bash Compactor: Bowled Over


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I was avoiding the dehumanizing press scrum bunched around the red carpet at Bowlmor Lanes’ 70th anniversary party last week and taking advantage of the open bar. Who can I talk to? Two cute girls, a blonde and a brunette, came strolling in, giggling like eighth graders at a school dance.


Hi girls. The blonde—charms around her plunging neckline—was Peaches Geldof, the Brit teen terror. Her pal was 18-year-old old hipster it-girl Cory Kennedy, looking very Highway 66 Dylan in a stonewashed denim jacket.The latter was taking it easy with a white wine, but the former wasn’t fooling around, ordering a Jack and Coke. I asked them about Chace Crawford, the Gossip Girl star the entertainment reporters were waiting to pounce on. “Who?” He wasn’t on Cory’s radar. “You know, the gay guy,” Peaches jogged her friend’s memory, adding thoughtfully, “he shouldn’t hide it.” I asked the blonde if she still thought he was hot, and she just held up her wedding ring—Geldof was recently hitched in Vegas.What about you, Cory? “Yup,” she giggled, adding her catchphrase, “dope.” The conversation moved on to Nylon, the fashion rag where the duo “writes and models.”

“[Editor] Marvin [Scott Jarrett] is very Warholian in the way he does things,” Geldof opined.You mean he doesn’t do anything? “Oh come on, he had magnetism,” she shot back indignantly. Images of Brigid Berlin poking herself in the ass with a methfilled syringe danced in my head.What’s the drug of choice at Nylon? “Klonopin.”


Peaches was definitely the talky one. Why? “It’s just a very large prescription-drug culture.” I asked Cory what she thought. “No comment.” They had to do the red carpet thing, and chatty Cathy said they’d be back. “Dope, dope…” her sidekick added.


After a couple of drinks I was ready to brave the red carpet; but as luck would have it, I caught up with my new friends again.


Peaches grabbed the vodka out of my hand and gulped it down. We chatted about burgeoning careers and British tabloids—“If 40year-old housewives have nothing better to do than hate on me, so be it”—while Cory said “yah,” and “dope” a bunch more times.


I noticed the journos sharpening their elbows as a tall, dark-haired fellow sporting a goatee and white baseball cap sauntered slowly toward us.As the expensive flashes started popping, Cory unfurled a disposable Kodak.


“That’s Michael Phelps.” “Who’s Michael Phelps?” Peaches wanted to know. “Basically he’s a freak of nature,” the quiet one asserted, “but I hear he’s dating Lily Donaldson.”


So I bid my adieus. On the press line, I had to ask the man of the hour about something other than his expensive plaid shirt. Did he know Yasser Arafat was a big investor at Bowlmor? “I had no idea; it’s my first time here. I just want to have fun tonight.”



He wasn’t taking any more questions.


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