MO: impersonating both Conde Nast and Hearst editors.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Party Crashers Make the Pages
via Bizbash.com
Hamptons Report: I Saw Shaggy, and Tasted the Greatest Scallop of All
Tell your greeters, your door girls, and especially your security team that the world’s most relentless party crasher has somehow figured out the jitney and is now making the scene out here in the Hamptons. If you’re not familiar: Shaggy, whose real name I once knew, has a full, frizzy grey mane styled improbably like a rock singer. You’ll spot him; he looks inappropriate wherever he goes. He once crashed my birthday party—there were only 40 people invited and I still don’t know how he found out about it—and was incredulous when I asked him to leave. “But I’m already here, what’s the big deal?” is what he always used to say. At my old firm we kept his picture in the Xerox room, like restaurants do with food critics, so that interns and newbie staffers could pick him out of a crowd. As my old boss, Valerie Salembier (now the publisher of Harper’s Bazaar), once wisely told me, “Problems don’t just go away.” I say ditto with cockroaches and Shaggy. So I was riled by seeing the infamous crasher at the East End Hospice’s Summer Gala on June 28. I will support any charity with the word hospice in it. The way I see it, hospice care workers are as close to God as you can get—if you believe in God. This is a small, conservative charity. I was there because my cousin Meredith McBride (along with Christian Dior’s charming Bryn Kenny) was on the committee. So there appears Shaggy under the tent in Quogue, scarfing the free food, quaffing the free spirits, fingering the fine linens. Oh, it makes me so mad.
Hamptons Report: I Saw Shaggy, and Tasted the Greatest Scallop of All
Tell your greeters, your door girls, and especially your security team that the world’s most relentless party crasher has somehow figured out the jitney and is now making the scene out here in the Hamptons. If you’re not familiar: Shaggy, whose real name I once knew, has a full, frizzy grey mane styled improbably like a rock singer. You’ll spot him; he looks inappropriate wherever he goes. He once crashed my birthday party—there were only 40 people invited and I still don’t know how he found out about it—and was incredulous when I asked him to leave. “But I’m already here, what’s the big deal?” is what he always used to say. At my old firm we kept his picture in the Xerox room, like restaurants do with food critics, so that interns and newbie staffers could pick him out of a crowd. As my old boss, Valerie Salembier (now the publisher of Harper’s Bazaar), once wisely told me, “Problems don’t just go away.” I say ditto with cockroaches and Shaggy. So I was riled by seeing the infamous crasher at the East End Hospice’s Summer Gala on June 28. I will support any charity with the word hospice in it. The way I see it, hospice care workers are as close to God as you can get—if you believe in God. This is a small, conservative charity. I was there because my cousin Meredith McBride (along with Christian Dior’s charming Bryn Kenny) was on the committee. So there appears Shaggy under the tent in Quogue, scarfing the free food, quaffing the free spirits, fingering the fine linens. Oh, it makes me so mad.
Party Crashers Make the Pages
via FoxNews.com
Was Sony the Secret VH-1/Vogue Fashion Sponsor?
It doesn't take Columbo to figure out that the VH-1/Vogue Fashion special was a Sony Entertainment spectacle.
The grueling two hour show featured David Bowie singing two songs from his Sony album Heathen, Steven Tyler of Sony's Aerosmith singing a duet with Pink and then picking up some ridiculous award; John Travolta plugging his upcoming Sony movie Basic and Sony artist Jennifer Lopez flapping around for photographers.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
There were probably subliminal ads too, but I couldn't catch all of them. The awards themselves weren't awards at all -- there were no nominees to speak of, just people jumping up on the stage to accept thunderous applause from the paid extras also on stage. Ralph Lauren? One of Vogue's biggest advertisers. Tom Ford of Gucci? Same. Congratulations to both on their advertorial status.
Later, the after-party at the Hudson Hotel was one of those nightmare situations of clipboard Nazi's and way too many people trying to get past the velvet ropes. One model who'd been in the show was nastily turned away by a hotel publicist, dismissed without blinking an eye.
Nevertheless, the city's most famous party crashers got in -- including a guy who looks like Big Bird whom everyone refers to as "Shaggy," a little bald man who claims to be a dentist, a matronly but cheerful blond woman who misses no event and a tall guy with headlamp eyes. No one knows their names, but we all know what they look like. So much for security and exclusivity.
I did run into a lot of mostly pleasant celebs who were so jam packed into the room they couldn't breathe. They included Natalie Portman, Caroline Rhea, Claire Danes with boyfriend Ben Lee and lots of pretty young things in search of companionship. One such person, a society girl I am told, managed to spend a lot of quality time with Hugh Grant. We'll have to see what the tabloids say if that relationship progresses, but it was called to my attention by several jealous young ladies in the smoky, overcrowded room.
Was Sony the Secret VH-1/Vogue Fashion Sponsor?
It doesn't take Columbo to figure out that the VH-1/Vogue Fashion special was a Sony Entertainment spectacle.
The grueling two hour show featured David Bowie singing two songs from his Sony album Heathen, Steven Tyler of Sony's Aerosmith singing a duet with Pink and then picking up some ridiculous award; John Travolta plugging his upcoming Sony movie Basic and Sony artist Jennifer Lopez flapping around for photographers.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
There were probably subliminal ads too, but I couldn't catch all of them. The awards themselves weren't awards at all -- there were no nominees to speak of, just people jumping up on the stage to accept thunderous applause from the paid extras also on stage. Ralph Lauren? One of Vogue's biggest advertisers. Tom Ford of Gucci? Same. Congratulations to both on their advertorial status.
Later, the after-party at the Hudson Hotel was one of those nightmare situations of clipboard Nazi's and way too many people trying to get past the velvet ropes. One model who'd been in the show was nastily turned away by a hotel publicist, dismissed without blinking an eye.
Nevertheless, the city's most famous party crashers got in -- including a guy who looks like Big Bird whom everyone refers to as "Shaggy," a little bald man who claims to be a dentist, a matronly but cheerful blond woman who misses no event and a tall guy with headlamp eyes. No one knows their names, but we all know what they look like. So much for security and exclusivity.
I did run into a lot of mostly pleasant celebs who were so jam packed into the room they couldn't breathe. They included Natalie Portman, Caroline Rhea, Claire Danes with boyfriend Ben Lee and lots of pretty young things in search of companionship. One such person, a society girl I am told, managed to spend a lot of quality time with Hugh Grant. We'll have to see what the tabloids say if that relationship progresses, but it was called to my attention by several jealous young ladies in the smoky, overcrowded room.
Esther and Shelly Nash
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