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When you re invited to get drunk at Time magazine managing editor Jim Kelly s home, you really have no choice but to go. The crowd is sure to be good and, if one is lucky, the gossip will be stellar (at his last mega-fete, Katie Couric was overhead loudly bitching about the CBS rumors). If you can handle it, we fully endorse trekking to the Upper West Side as we did last night for Kelly s party in honor of Time.com s latest acquisition, heterodox blogstar Andrew Sullivan.

After the jump, a quickie rundown of the scene and some stunning bathroom photography.

Upon ascending to Jim Kelly's bigger-than-yours apartment, we were hit with a thick wave of heat. This was the party, where expensive suits (Times editor Bill Keller) and cheap handbags (us) met in one sweaty, media clusterfuck. Things were so crowded and the provisions so overextended, the bar was forced to serve The Smoking Gun s Andrew Goldberg his vodka in a chalice resembling a pimp cup (clearly from the Kelly family collection). If we weren't afraid of being kicked out for pulling out a camera, we'd have taken pictures and framed them.

Time Inc. CEO Ann Moore glided about, gracefully acknowledging her peons and anyone else who had the balls to make an introduction. Time Inc. editor-in-chief John Huey was there (but not dining on chocolate pieces of his face), as were Joe Klein and Jay Carney. Former Radar scribe Andrew Goldstein was there, reporting for Boldface Names; fellow Timesman Nick Confessore upped the crowd's Pretty Quotient. Predictably, our fellow internerds held court near the hard liquor; Gawker founding editor Elizabeth Spiers had the grace not to slap us while Wonkette Emeritusette Ana Marie Cox s skin glowed like that of a blogger set free. Nick Denton even showed up, if only to tug on our leashes.

The party distribution scale tipped heavily in favor of the Observer, who must ve had 2/3 of its staff there, some inexplicably in suits, while Peter Kaplan worked the room, searching for a savior. Charlie Rose appeared, as did Anderson Cooper who informed us that contrary to our report, he had not looked at a home in the Hamptons (figures; he d be more apt to buy near the Pines). Guest of honor Andrew Sullivan was pleasantly holding court with his altitudinous boyfriend, who we hear he met on the dancefloor.

At about this point, we were talking to someone who inspired us to wildly gesticulate. Naturally, this resulted in knocking his glass out of his hand and thus a shattered champagne flute. In our defense, he had a terrible grip. It was time to vacate the party crime scene, so we went to take care of some business in the little girls' room — and we d be remiss if we didn t show you Jim Kelly s bathroom.

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Very Beverly Hills Hotel, no? And not that we were poking around in the bathtub, but a half-open curtain revealed certain treasures:

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Beer in the tub. Our kind of party.

As a grand finale to the evening, Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter entered the foyer, sans Skidz. He stood in that same area, unmoving — not even feigning any intention to enter the actual party. About 10 minutes later, he walked right back out the door, never to return. What? Was it us?