Team Party Crash: Thomas Onorato's Book Party
Man of the hour Thomas Onorato still won't let Visionaire's Scott Meriam into Motherfucker.
Thomas the Doorman — n Thomas Onorato — is the master of the hipster velvet rope, playing God to thousands of silly kids in bandanas who pray for entry into MisShapes, Motherfucker or, God willing, a celebrity event. His hard, door-bitch work apparently merits a book deal — or, more specifically, a book deal for Thomas and Glenn Belverio, the author of Thomas' biography, Confessions From the Velvet Ropes (better this than Ego & Hubris: The Michael Malice Story). The book details Onorato's "glamorous, grueling life" and was feted last night with a dinner party at Sol. After the jump, Gawker houseboy Neel Shah and staff historian Nikola Tamindzic realize how remarkably un-downtown they are.
Funny that a party in honor of Thomas Onorato, the man in charge of weeding out those dressed idiotically from those dressed idiotically enough to gain entry to MisShapes, wouldn't actually have anyone manning the door, but such was the case when Team Party Crash rolled into West Chelsea's Sol last night. Crisis averted outside, a minor one encountered when in: turns out we didn't so much know most of the people in the room. Lacking a cogent game plan, we did what we normally do when we feel like MisFits: plant ourselves firmly at the bar and wait for something to happen.
Rolling Stone's BFG Rob Sheffield and his pet gnome, Village Voice scribe Tricia Romano.
W beauty editor Jessica Matlin (right) silently prays that Faran Krentcil won't bust out her notecards and camera.
Lots of pointy white shoes, shorts with blazers, and asymmetrical haircuts drift by. Then: "Hey, can I get a picture of you guys?" a rather frantic woman says to former Imaginary Socialite and current The Daily scribe Faran Krentcil and her pals, who happened to be standing to our right. A wary Krentcil responded in the affirmative, but not before asking the obvious: "Is this for some blog?" Of course, came the reply, with the standard disclaimer "But I won't post it if you don't want me to." Oh, what passes for common courtesy in the digital age. Keep an eye out for that one in next week's Metropolitan Diary.
Cutrone and her imported toy.
To our left, People's Revolution founder and party hostess Kelly Cutrone was in protracted negotiations with the owner of Sol over the right to light up. After much back and forth, Cutrone announced the terms of their arrangement: "I'm paying the $1,000 fine if we get caught, and giving him two front-row tickets to the Jeremy Scott Fashion Week show for his trouble." Much rejoicing as a bevy of others (including Cutrone's serious Argentine arm candy, whom she gleefully notes just shot an 8-page spread in Vogue L'uomo for Bruce Weber) reached for their Marlboro Reds. "I really enjoy a cigarette before dinner," dandy-about-town Patrick McDonald tells us between puffs. "It's just, well, very European." Never mind that "being European" is also the guiding aesthetic behind capri pants and man purses, but we nod in agreement.
Funny, isn't it, that Patrick McDonald wants to know what the hell you're looking at?
Studio 54 doorman Mark Benecke apologizes for keeping Anthony Haden-Guest out in the cold on so many nights. "You weren't missing that much inside anyway, I swear."
Over comes Anthony Hayden-Guest. He seems interested by the fact that we're furiously scribbling in a note pad and asks if we are journalists. Not really, we say, because we're from Gawker. This inspires a chortle. "I'm allowed to be a commenter on that thing," he says, though adding that he doesn't typically post. Guest is surprisingly coherent as he proceeds to regale us with a brief history on the decline of club culture in America. "Love-ins and clubs used to be this crucible for serious social change — places where people involved in the gay movement, the women's movement, and the black equality movement congregated. Now, you young people just want to go and have fun." Fucking Lohan, man — it's a rare talent to ruin someone's evening by proxy.
Motherfucker promoters Johnny T. and Michael T. prep for the Joan Rivers casting call.
Suddenly all of those blind items about photographer Bruce Benderson are a little more believable.
Because anyone affiliated with MisShapes can't do a damn thing straightforwardly, the book party is actually more of a dinner party, of the actual sit-down nature. Typically, we only subject ourselves to such awkwardness when our more domesticated friends require our presence at one of their little soirees designed to show off their new place settings, and even then we find the experience ultimately painful. That is to say: time for us to go.
