We try not to let the New York Times ruin our weekend, but we'll inevitably run across some piece of inanity that leaves us weeping. This time, it was a Saturday article on the death of the Williamsburg scene that almost merited an emergency weekend update — but then we realized there was no reason to make our readers shit themselves on a Saturday. So we waited until today, of course.
It's amazing what you can get Intern Neel to do after a few drinks — he was practically begging us to let him go to last night's introductory Kabbalah lecture. We knew, however, that Neel has a history of being particularly susceptible to cults, so we were hesitant. Then we realized that we, like, totally wanted some authentic red string bracelets! After the jump, Neel learns that those little pieces of yarn just might come at the cost of your sanity.
Pity the poor residents near East Hampton's Two Mile Hollow Beach — just when they thought they'd recovered from last summer's gay invasion of their beloved 'hood, renters on Further Lane have filed complaints over the sighting of nude bathers and two men having sex. Oh, those pesky gays, with their gritty, uncontrollable sand-fucking! What are the wealthy heteros so scared of? Maybe the vacationing ladies don't want to trigger any repressed ideas in their pink-oxford-clad hubbies?
Hamptons Report [NYP]
The New York Times focuses our hung-over eyes in the direction of a disturbing trend: those bastard people who order dinner at the bar. (We've seen them too, and we hate them.) It's becoming commonplace for restaurant bars to be filled with people ordering three course meals, leaving no bar space for those of us trying to get hammered. This is reprehensible! Need we order unnecessary and sobering food just to rest our pints on the bar?
Bartender, There's An Olive In My Soup [NYT]
Today's New York Times has some truly, uh, interesting articles, the sort that make you choke on your low-carb scone and wonder who, exactly, pitched the concept and, more importantly, what sort of drug they were on. First up: a smashing profile of Fred Bigler, indentured servant chief concierge at the Ritz-Carlton. With no sarcasm or irony whatsoever, we're given a wrenchingly detailed account of how Mr. Bigler loves his asinine job:
We imagine that somewhere deep underground there's a damp factory in which Ronsons are bred, only to be released into the fake-celebrity mainstream where they multiply their worth by appearing greasy and vapid at all times. Then they get to be DJs and designers and run around doing famous-y things. Why not observe the Ronson phenomenon tonight by wishing the bots a happy birthday? A beloved tipster points us in the right direction:
Saturday night s 2004 Blackout Reunion theme certainly had potential to be a good party. Finally, a chance for people to reunite over a warm beer, embrace a stranger and perhaps — with luck — partake in some 2004 Blackout Reunion sex. Yeah, we'll go anywhere there's the possibility of sex in a darkened room. Gawker special correspondent Kristen Duncan Williams and staff photographer Eliot Shepard revel in the darkness.
Lots of us have our own private blackout parties on Saturday nights — but tomorrow, on the anniversary of last summer's blackout, we get to over-drink in the dark together! Awesome. I kind of feel like all of New York will be joining me tomorrow in my own private drinking game.
Lest we forget how cruel and unforgiving the Conde Nast cafeteria can be, a Nastie reminds us that they don't take dirty old cash (a currency for commoners, indeed) but they do give out free semi-condiments:
Now that Courtney Love has been banished to quitters-ville, it's Andy Dick's time to shine. Not only did he go batshit insane at nightclub Suede, bursting into tears over the death of his best friend Rick James, but he also called N Sync member Joey Fatone the fat one and threw $100 at the dishwasher. Reportedly he was begging for coke and tried to stick his tongue down the throat of former actor Seth Green.
Magnolia Bakery, that Sex and the City-era icebox-cake-loving hotspot on Bleecker Street, denies loudly today to the NY Observer that they're closing that yuppie-packed location. We hear otherwise. Repeatedly. But we also know people like to talk about things they don't know anything about.
There's nothing that saddens us more than rumors that an institution of homosexual debauchery has gone by the wayside. Is nothing sacred, people? A tipster reports:
We've spent the last hour desperately trying to get knocked up. Hurry! Impregnate! Madonna is opening a Kabbalah primary school right here in New York! We've already commissioned BabyGap to design red-string booties! The school is set to open its doors in December, so we won't be able to squeeze out a liquor-damaged satan-spawn in time for the inaugural class, but hopefully we can get on the inevitable wait-list for our little Baby Gawker to enroll in the class of 2009.
Madge In A Class Of Her Own[Sky News]
We try to do more for our readers than tell them who the latest and greatest skanks are. Hell, we'll stoop to service journalism at the drop of the hat. A reader writes:
Our Special Correspondent on Drunken Hamptonites spends a lost weekend in the Hamptons — which, we assume, is why she hasn't filed her report until today. Evidently the drinks and all that high society at the Watermill Center benefit were terribly intoxicating.
This city has been getting way too egalitarian as of late, don't you think? Even our mothers have been to Soho House. So we're thankful that the new and not-yet-opened VIP club, Frederick's, has announced their charter members, which include Harvey Weinstein, Lizzie Grubman, Aerin Lauder, and shoe-designer Holly Dunlap. We've never heard of this Holly Dunlap, but we can tell she's perfect for the scene:
NYT restaurant critic Frank Bruni confuses the shit out of us! One second, we're catching up with this week's review of the new Hamptons dining establishments (you know, so we can like, plan our weekend accordingly), and the next, we're wondering who replaced his Charmin with sandpaper. Frankly, after pertinent information such as follows, we don't really care about the breaded chicken cutlets:
