Last night was Box NYC, the third annual boxing, dinner club, poker event and model show, produced by Jed Weinstein at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Sponsored by Trump Vodka and Poker Life! We've long been of the opinion that testosterone untempered by a little gayness is a horrifying thing. Last night, we were vindicated. The sidewalk in front of Hammerstein was covered in a red carpet with a roped off area within which various divans and settees were arranged for smokers. From 8th Avenue, one could already see a dense cloud of cigar smoke. Walking into a room of dudes who are richer, older and more aggressive than oneself is a discomfiting sensation. Great shafts of light fell onto the Paul Stewart suits and bald spots of successful i-Bankers who paid up to $8,000 for a table. Downstairs, on a hideous carpet, men played poker. In the bathroom, dudes drank Scotch, peed AND talked to each other all at once. My mind was blown. And then the boxing started.

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The spectacle of watching two dudes punching each other in the face until one is knocked out is already a vexed issue. For true fans of the sweet science, watching a fight unfold is pure drama. But when 99% of the audience is composed of incredibly wealthy white guys who have no interest in boxing, uneasy-making racial issues are raised. It doesn't help that the audience is shouting out, "Knock him out, son!" or that, after an hour of open bar and in the company of fellow men, aggression in the audience was almost as palpable as aggression in the ring. During the third fight, the audience was torn between a brawl in the balcony and the final round in the ring. Are these hooting, hollering, drunken douches the engines of our economy? This thought alone is capable of turning the market from bull to bear.

If casual racism and unfettered access to wealth are the hallmarks of douchiness, so too is a certain level of lady-fear and lady-hatred. Thanks to the numerous corporate sponsors of the event, no chance to ogle tits went unexploited. Primary Support sent around two statuesque women to hand out business cards in wife-beaters; they read "We're Hot for Technology." A lingerie show by a company called "Ravage" featured G-strings and models who walked in a circle around the ring. Meanwhile, inside the ring, some poor model in a black cotton jumper, white chucks and black face did interpretive dance. Weird.

Some of the money from the event went to Laureaus Sport for Good charity, so to dismiss the entire thing as simply a worthless jackass freakshow would be unfair. But proceeds notwithstanding, it really was a convention of douches and dudes, a terrifying view into the coal chamber of our economy. —Josh