Where should your dear children Tiffany, Amber, and Skeet live when they arrive in our fair city to attend NYU? Today, resident lush/statistician Andrew Krucoff compares reported crime in the precincts of the Lower East Side, the East Village, and Williamsburg. The answer is clear: install your heinous children in TriBeCa, and keep them away from the "cool" neighborhoods.

Hey, we didn't get an invitation to former Daily News writer Sunny Lee's birthday party! (Probably because we've never met.) Too bad, because the party is reportedly taking place on Necker Island, which is owned by Virgin's Richard Branson. V. v. swanky! Reportedly, the staff to guest ratio is 2:1, which as far as I'm concerned means that one staffer could stick food in my craw while another helps me throw it up.

According to a poster on the Shameless Restaurants bulletin board, the Maritime Hotel's late-night lounge Hiro is looking for a very specific sort of staffer:

Soho House says it's getting great member renewals this year — but snobby New York bankers are so desperate for approval that they'd pay their own mother to serve them iffy food and treat them shabbily. (To give credit, we found Soho House staff very pleasant recently as they told me I couldn't be seated for dinner before 11 p.m. It's the ultimate anorexic experience! Just keep drinking, never eat.) According to a recently-quit Soho House employee — surprise! — working in the Big House sucks. His/her report follows.

Soho House, that high-security members-only fortress in the Meatpacking District, is having a blitz of bad PR during its first annual membership renewal drive. Today Page Six quotes a former staffer as saying the snaggle-tooth wanker lounge is "half-full and every night there is a tantrum thrown by a guest." Last week, a drunk guest threw a bottle of Cristal at a manager and pulled a fire alarm — Soho House's PR rep swears on a stack of crumpets that, contrary to what Page Six said on Friday, that guest did not take a piss in the elevator, shorting out the electric system.

Tom Zoellner comments on the non-mating ritual that takes place when two heterosexual men meet at, say, the Holiday Cocktail Lounge or Hi-Fi: someone must raise a giant flag that says "Don't worry, bro: I don't crave cock."

Just last week, when the NY Times declared the Meatpacking District to be over, we disagreed — we thought a night out on lower 9th Avenue was kind of fun and kicky and ridiculous. But last night, we changed our minds again. Third-rate Markt had a 45-minute wait at 10 p.m. — the only place with a table was Pop Burger, where the music was so loud you couldn't even hear yourself order. And of course, there's another problem with the trendy colonization of the 'hood, as a reader points out:

In our quest to do good in the world — shut up —, we've come across a young 4 Times Square temp who craves to eat in the Conde Nast Cafeteria. Boy needs escort! The temp in question is between 22 and 27, single, and supposedly cute and funny. (And, we presume, straight.) Any takers? Send us an email at tips@gawker.com, and we'll send you his email. (Yes, we'll keep your email private.) Our boy writes:

According to The Smoking Gun, "an official tribute sign erected on the fence surrounding Ground Zero actually misstated the date of the terror attacks," giving the date as September 11, 2002. Eh, we were pretty much drunk for a year, so how are the city's graphic designers supposed to remember?

At the Hotel Gansevoort last night: Ivanka Trump, Sissy Spacek, numerous redheads (redheads are the new blondes!), and many, many shallow himbos. He-whores. Boy-toys. Man-candy. You get the picture.
A&F Vanity [Greek Tragedy]

We finally had an excuse to check out the rooms at the Maritime Hotel, the former Covenant House on Ninth Avenue. (Don't ask. A guy's gotta make a little money somehow. You think this shit pays the bills?) Anyway, if you're checking into the Maritime, make sure you bring binoculars. They've got fantastic views into the housing projects across the street — for $300 a night, you can get a real eyeful of how the other 9/10ths really live.

You can smell the one paltry star baking in Frank Bruni's kitchen from the first sentence of his take-down of Jean-Georges Vongerichten's V Steakhouse in the Time Warner Center. By the time Bruni starts ranking on the decor — "V Steakhouse is like the nexus of the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas and Tavern on the Green" — you even start to feel a little bad (or super-star chef Jean-Georges, the over-extended restaurateur of Manhattan demi-socialite choice. This is, it turns out, a fairly major assault on the massive Jean-Georges empire.

This review of restaurant-reviewers is probably two months old, dating from not long after Frank Bruni was named the NYT restaurant critic. Still, we've never seen it, and it's the most insanely obsessive thing ever. After about 90,000 words, in which he trashes NY Resident's Sheldon Landwehr's salt phobia, the "child-like writing" of NYT/Connecticut Stephanie Lyness, and NY mag's Adam Platt's description of an oyster as a "gooey square the color of sputum," the author coughs up a top five list:

According to various reports, Calvin Klein's big "housewarming" party this weekend in the Hamptons was a total boy-mess kegger party gone wrong (or maybe right!). Chock-full of party-crashers and go-go boys without a cage to dance in, we salute Mr. Klein's party for putting tasteless where it belongs — smack in the middle of the Hamptons. One of our favorite spies reports.

Coco Scales will never work in this town again — but if Gawker had a required reading syllabus, it would consist entirely of this article, written by the hostess and doorgirl of former hotspot Hue. Best celebrity venality expose ever! Of course, we're a little concerned that Coco is totally without Google results. That's a little odd, right? Suggestive of a pseudonym?
The Hostess Diary: My Year at a Hot Spot [NYT]

A waitress reports from a private party last weekend:

Here's the real coverage of last night's John Kerry to-do at Radio City Music Hall. Whatever. Here's the story we care about — Gotham publisher Jason Binn, Arianna Huffington, talk show hostette Tina Brown, and Fisher Stevens — from our incredibly malicious super-spy on the inside.

The Village Voice must miss their old enemy Rudy Giuliani desperately. Fortunately for them, our dear ex-Mayor published a list of his top ten restaurants for Republican convention attendees this summer. And all ten establishments have fairly gnarly Department of Health inspection reports, the Voice is delighted to learn. (Of course, what Manhattan restaurant doesn't have rats in the kitchen? I'm looking at you, Michael's!)

Alexis Stewart, reclusive daughter of Martha, is leading the Escape from Georgica Pond movement out in East Hampton. Both the WSJ and the NY Post (but who believes them any more?) report that a broker claims Alexis has been quietly trying to sell the house her mommy gave her for almost a year. She's not alone: all around the pond, radically over-priced mogul-lodges sit unsold and unloved. Aww.

Jesse McKinley, the NYT Styles-boy who gets sent out every couple of months to decide whether a neighborhood is 'over' or not, smacked down the Meatpacking District hard this weekend. It's beyond over, according to Jesse. What a funny synchronicity: we were just deciding that we love the Meatpacking District again!