They’re positively inspiring! Say you will, my dear. Spend the night. At least one night. Please. Don’t make Uncle Bailey beg,”
“Stay here?” Vanessa surveyed the scene once more: a modern glass-and-concrete mansion, a glittering blue pool, hundreds of perfectly dressed and groomed men, chilled martinis—it was like a Fellini film, if Fellini had ever made a movie about summer in the Hamptons. She felt a surge of creativity that almost took her breath away. Of course! A movie, in the Hamptons! An impressionistic documentary, inter-splicing party footage with first-person interviews, documenting the creative process of one of the fashion industry’s leading forces. It was a little bit Robert Altman, a little bit Grey Gardens. Not to mention that it beat the shit out of booger patrol at the James-Morgans’. “Stay here,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Why, yes. I’d love to.”
She would?
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
Gossip Girl 10 - Would I Lie To You
hey people!
Okay, so I know I already interrupted your regularly scheduled programming for an important message, but this is an emergency. I’m putting out an APB—that’s all-points-bulletin in case you didn’t know—on some of our very favorite people. . . .
Missing: A vintage hunter green Aston Martin convertible. Last seen speeding out of Georgica Pond a little after sundown. Reports vary, but my best sources say the car contained at least three people—a guy and two girls—and I’m getting reports that at least one of the girls was wearing white. Could someone be eloping? Please keep your eyes peeled. And now, back to your regularly scheduled dish.
book report
Our first juicy report affirms what I both hoped and feared about those book geeks: they really are freaks in bed. Rumor has it that a certain Harlem-based intellectual salon went from swapping literary thought to swapping spit—and fast. Talk about an introductory “getting to know you” meeting. I wonder if that’s what D and his new friend G had in mind when they sought out “like-minded young men and women” and asked applicants to attach their pictures. . . . Then again, from what I hear, these eager literati saw beyond the shackles of identity—like, um, gender—and simply embraced the soul (and some other things) of the person next to them. I guess that’s what they mean about not judging a book by its cover.
So does this little freak-orgy mean the demise of literary debate? Can people no longer sit around a rambling Harlem apartment and discuss great works of literature without getting frisky? Or does it symbolize the return of freaky group-sex organizations like Plato’s Retreat? (Can I just say . . . ew.) Sorry to disappoint, but for once I don’t know for sure. I will tell you what it means for me, however: I am never, ever going above One-hundredth Street. I don’t care how “stimulating” the event promises to be.
paint by numbers
Speaking of parties with an, ahem, same-sex appeal, I have a bone to pick with a certain flamboyant designer about his latest stylish affair: What’s with the all-white theme? For people who consider themselves free thinkers, the idea itself is just so . . . single-minded (although maybe I’m just smarting from my exclusion from the party, due to the similarly single-minded all-male theme). I suppose it’s a way for the rich and famous to make themselves feel chic and fabulous—anybody remember that rocker whose Greenwich Village apartment was done entirely in white? Even his guests had to match the décor. And while it may look it fantastic for five minutes, it’s so impractical—hello, drunk people, colorful drinks, and white sofas? Can anyone else put two and two together? Personally, I’m up for anything colorful, particularly in summer. To prove my point, a few of my favorite (colorful) things: sunset-pink Cosmos,
“Stay here?” Vanessa surveyed the scene once more: a modern glass-and-concrete mansion, a glittering blue pool, hundreds of perfectly dressed and groomed men, chilled martinis—it was like a Fellini film, if Fellini had ever made a movie about summer in the Hamptons. She felt a surge of creativity that almost took her breath away. Of course! A movie, in the Hamptons! An impressionistic documentary, inter-splicing party footage with first-person interviews, documenting the creative process of one of the fashion industry’s leading forces. It was a little bit Robert Altman, a little bit Grey Gardens. Not to mention that it beat the shit out of booger patrol at the James-Morgans’. “Stay here,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Why, yes. I’d love to.”
She would?
Disclaimer: All the real names of places, people, and events have been altered or abbreviated to protect the innocent. Namely, me.
Gossip Girl 10 - Would I Lie To You
hey people!
Okay, so I know I already interrupted your regularly scheduled programming for an important message, but this is an emergency. I’m putting out an APB—that’s all-points-bulletin in case you didn’t know—on some of our very favorite people. . . .
Missing: A vintage hunter green Aston Martin convertible. Last seen speeding out of Georgica Pond a little after sundown. Reports vary, but my best sources say the car contained at least three people—a guy and two girls—and I’m getting reports that at least one of the girls was wearing white. Could someone be eloping? Please keep your eyes peeled. And now, back to your regularly scheduled dish.
book report
Our first juicy report affirms what I both hoped and feared about those book geeks: they really are freaks in bed. Rumor has it that a certain Harlem-based intellectual salon went from swapping literary thought to swapping spit—and fast. Talk about an introductory “getting to know you” meeting. I wonder if that’s what D and his new friend G had in mind when they sought out “like-minded young men and women” and asked applicants to attach their pictures. . . . Then again, from what I hear, these eager literati saw beyond the shackles of identity—like, um, gender—and simply embraced the soul (and some other things) of the person next to them. I guess that’s what they mean about not judging a book by its cover.
So does this little freak-orgy mean the demise of literary debate? Can people no longer sit around a rambling Harlem apartment and discuss great works of literature without getting frisky? Or does it symbolize the return of freaky group-sex organizations like Plato’s Retreat? (Can I just say . . . ew.) Sorry to disappoint, but for once I don’t know for sure. I will tell you what it means for me, however: I am never, ever going above One-hundredth Street. I don’t care how “stimulating” the event promises to be.
paint by numbers
Speaking of parties with an, ahem, same-sex appeal, I have a bone to pick with a certain flamboyant designer about his latest stylish affair: What’s with the all-white theme? For people who consider themselves free thinkers, the idea itself is just so . . . single-minded (although maybe I’m just smarting from my exclusion from the party, due to the similarly single-minded all-male theme). I suppose it’s a way for the rich and famous to make themselves feel chic and fabulous—anybody remember that rocker whose Greenwich Village apartment was done entirely in white? Even his guests had to match the décor. And while it may look it fantastic for five minutes, it’s so impractical—hello, drunk people, colorful drinks, and white sofas? Can anyone else put two and two together? Personally, I’m up for anything colorful, particularly in summer. To prove my point, a few of my favorite (colorful) things: sunset-pink Cosmos,
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