Imaginary Socialite

Boxer, The Seeker, and I sit outside Cafe Habana, sipping coffee. Boxer is staring at three non-blondes through the window, who appear to be staring back. A girl wafts by with her dog; Boxer shifts his focus until she disappears down the alley.

“Cute,” I say.
“Totally,” agrees Boxer.
“But,” I add, “her hair needed some help.”
“Yeah, it was fried.”

For a moment I wonder if the boys want to chase tail and I should leave. I stand up but The Seeker pulls me back down.

“Drink it,” he orders. “You’re exhausted.” This is true. I sip my coffee, glare at the girls in the window. They seem to glare back.

“Hey,” snaps Boxer, “why do girls become fag hags?” An abrupt question.

“You’re not gay,” I mutter back. An abrupt answer.

“I think,” says Boxer slowly, “it’s because they want all the attention. They have to be Queen all the time, so they find the guys…”

“That’s not it,” I interrupt. “Some girls are just always the target. They’re too different. They’re too threatening. So all the girls gang up and hate them. It’s not about being the Queen Bee, you just don’t want to fight a battle every day. It gets old.”

I look behind me and realize, the girls are still glaring.

“Let’s go to your roof and smoke,” I tell Boxer. The Seeker pulls me up from the bench, and we turn down Prince towards home. As the boys race to scale a chain link fence, I quickly spin around, flash the girls a movie star smile, count to two, turn back.

“Fucking bitches,” I think out loud, realizing they’ve just said the same thing to each other.

[DEBRA MESSING - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

This comes to us all the way from Vermont.

Vermont? Whatever, we’ll take what we can get.

Dear Imaginary Socialite,

I just checked out your blog and saw the reference to Hope Atherton. Do you know, I ran Varsity Cross Country with her little sister, Lily, at [prep school] in [some other green New England state]? I don’t think Hopey went to our school, but there’s my relation to her! Boy are those girls beautiful and so well dressed! Do you know them?
xoxoo
[someone very pretty and preppy]

***

Know them? Maybe I am them.

Keep them coming, kids: am.i@imaginarysocialite.com

[ISCA GREENFIELD-SANDERS - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

The Seeker glides off his elevator and onto a new skateboard, already scuffed and smacked around. As he sails past the front desk, the doormen call him Mr. Seeker. It’s bizarre. We cut through the Park to The Crown Building, where Heatherette is having a little Christmas party. Yes, it’s still April.

Right before Bergdorfs, The Seeker flips his board with a quick flick of his foot, then groans, a realization: “Babe, I can’t take my board in there. Those fashion people will think I’m carrying this thing around as an ACCESSORY. Like, to look cool, not because I actually use it.”

I doubt it. Why would anyone carry around a skateboard just to look cool? Isn’t that what a far more portable dimebag and far more useful semi-famous boyfriend are for? Hello.

Here comes Richie, kiss kiss kiss, glitter glitter glitter.

“Richie, this is The Seeker.”

“Hi! Wow, you’re so cool – I love guys who carry skateboards as accessories!”

There goes Richie, kiss kiss kiss, sparkle sparkle sparkle.

Outside, we park the board in front of Prada and share it as a seat. As we call Boxer for dinner plans, I stand up to stretch, causing the board to tip and The Seeker to fall smack on his Earnest Sewn ass.

We laugh hysterically; people stare.

Reese Witherspoon walks by; we stare.

Then we laugh some more.

The Seeker sticks me on his skateboard, holds my hand, and tugs me down Fifth Avenue. I clutch my Venetia tote in fear, staring at his hand and the board and the bag and wondering which, exactly, is the status accessory.

[AIMEE PHILLIPS - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

I say, I screen my calls, so email me instead.

imaginarysocialite@gmail.com

Guesses encouraged. So are boys.

[THEODORA RICHARDS - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

At 3 am, I crawl from the lap of a minor rock star to meet The Seeker. He waits on Ludlow, for no apparent reason, and holding a Red Bull like shark bait. I bite.

We walk to East Houston, but fearing yet another encounter with Bloc Party, we slide into a small deli stocked with Jewish food and Mexican cooks. We sit under flourescent lights, pounding Vitamin Water and Halvah bars, talking business – his upcoming birthday bash, a fete not yet planned but already legend.

“We’ll take my jet to Germany, if my dad okays it.” He peels the label from his bottle in a slow, steady curl. “It’ll be the best party ever.”

“Too showy,” I counter, feigning boredom (but really: Berlin!). “Why can’t we just use Bungalow?”

“No Bungalow,” he snaps firmly, “Amy’s on the outs. Plus, she has a crush on Boxer.”

“So? Isn’t that good?”

Boxer is our Third, though tonight he’s not invited. He’s also 10 years younger than Amy, at least, but this seems to make it better.

“No Bungalow,” answers The Seeker, and the issue folds. “And anyway,” he says with a shy smile, “I know you really want to go to Germany. Hang on.”

The Seeker sweeps from his chair, grabs a plastic tray from the counter, and slams it on a cockroach headed for the cookie case. It smashes, hatches open, dies. I stare at it, horrified, before cracking into a fit of laughter.

When I look up, I see through my newly sliced bangs that his eyes are clearer than mine, and wider, but otherwise the same.

[LEIGH LEZARK - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

How to Crash a Party:

1. Know where you’re going, and dress the part. Don’t wear jeans to a Bergdorf thing. Don’t wear a dress to Hiro. If you’re pretty, overdress to get noticed. If you’re not, underdress to look wealthier. Always carry a small status bag. Always carry a small flask.

2. Learn the names of the hosts; drop them at the door. Sometimes just saying, “Fabian told me to stop by” or “Aimee told me to come – go grab her if there’s a problem” is more than enough, especially if you say it very calmly, as if of course you’ll get in.

3. Pretend you’re Press. Bring an official looking camera (ie: not a dinky digital one) and say you work somewhere with great party pics – BlackBook, Vice, New York, Nylon – apologize if you sent them an email too late. You can also pretend to be with Patrick McMullan or Last Night’s Party, but that’s not as fun as pretending you’re a Nylon photographer, and you probably won’t get laid if anyone hears you.

4. Or pretend you’re The Help. Go through the back door, say you’re late for coat check, say you’re doing George’s makeup, say you’re dropping off a little bag for Lindsay. This is also useful for sneaking backstage, especially at small rock clubs, or clubs like Marquee when they pretend to be small rock clubs and hide Kelly Osbourne backstage so she can drink wine without anyone seeing her. Perhaps this is too much information.

5. If all else fails, throw a fit. This doesn’t always work, but it’s really fun and a good way to get noticed. It’s best to do drunk, hence the flask part of Rule #1. And it actually works – I remember last month, at the Bloc Party thing at Pianos, this random publicist marched up to the door, said, “What do you mean I’m not on the list? Don’t you know who I am? Tell Carlos I’m here, for fuck’s sake!” They let her right in. Meanwhile, The Killers couldn’t make it past the coked out bouncer.

6. Make friends. I was somehow seated at the Roger Vivier dinner because I started talking to Jane Lauder at Saks and wouldn’t stop. She still has no idea who I am, but the poor publicists at Emilia Fanjul think I’m like her BFF. And the steak was lovely, though I would have chosen a bolder wine.

7. Be me. I’m the imaginary socialite, and I was born to crash. In fact, I hear an expired bottle of Valium calling my name right now…

air kisses!

love The I.S.